UC-NRLF 


CAPE  BRETON  TALES 


BY 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/capebretontalesOOsmitrich 


CAPE    BRETON    TALES 


^'ept.  S     ir 


THE  INNER  HARBOR 


CAPE  BRETON  TALES 

BY 

HARRY  JAMES  SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF 

Amedee^s  Son^  Enchanted  Ground^  Mrs,  Bumpstead  Leigh, 
Tailor  Made  Man,  etc. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

OLIVER   M.  WIARD 


The  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright  1920 


Printed  in  ihf  United  States  of  A  merica 


CONTENTS 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  (1908) 

La  Rose  Witnesseth  (1908)   . 
OF  the  bucherons 

OF    LA    BELLE    MELANIE 

OF  Simeon's  son    . 
At  A  Breton  Calvaire  (1903) 
The  Privilege  (1910) 
Their  True  Love  (1910) 
Garlands  for  Pettipaw  (1915) 
Fly,  My  Heart  (19151     . 


17 
19 
32 

44 

57 
61 
77 
99 
119 


580188 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

By  OLIVER  M.  WIARD 
The  Inner  Harbor        ....      Frontispiece 

Arichat 17 

A  Calvaire 56 

Fougere's  Cove 76 

A  Fisherman's  House 118 


"0«  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton''  and  ''The 
Privilege''  were  first  published  in  The  Atlantic  Month- 
ly,  while  ''La  Rose  Witness eth  of  La  Belle  Melanie" 
is  reprinted  from  "Amedee's  Son"  {Chapters  VIII  and 
IX)  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  publishers^  Hough- 
ton Mifflin  Company, 

" At  a  Breton  Calvaire"  was  first  published  in  The 
Williams  Literary  Monthly  during  undergraduate 
days^  and  was  rewritten  several  times  during  the  next 
few  years.  The  final  form  is  the  one  used  here,  except 
for  the  last  stanza,  which  is  a  combination  of  the  two 
versions  now  extant. 

The  illustrations  are  from  sketches  made  during  Oli- 
ver Wiard's  visits  in  Arichat,  It  is  an  especial  pleasure 
to  include  them,  not  only  because  of  their  fidelity  and 
beauty,  but  also  because  of  my  brother's  enthusiastic 
interest  and  delight  in  them, 

Edith  Smith. 


ON  THE  FRENCH  SHORE  OF 
CAPE  BRETON 


ON  THE  FRENCH  SHORE  OF 
CAPE  BRETON 

[UMMER  comes  late  along  the  Cape  Breton 
shore ;  and  even  while  it  stays  there  is  some- 
thing a  little  diffident  and  ticklish  about  it, 
as  if  each  clear  warm  day  might  perhaps  be 
the  last.  Though  by  early  June  the  fields  are  in  their 
first  emerald,  there  are  no  flowers  yet.  The  little  con- 
vent girls  who  carry  the  banners  at  the  head  of  the 
Corpus  Christi  procession  at  Arichat  wear  wreaths  of 
artificial  lilies  of  the  valley  and  marguerites  over  their 
white  veils,  and  often  enough  their  teeth  chatter  with 
cold  before  the  completion  of  the  long  march  —  out 
from  the  church  portals  westward  by  the  populous 
street,  then  up  through  the  steep  open  fields  to  the  old 
Calvary  on  top  of  the  hill,  then  back  to  the  church  along 
the  grass-grown  upper  road,  far  above  the  roofs,  in 
full  view  of  the  wide  bay. 

Despite  some  discomforts,  the  procession  is  a  very 
great  event;  every  house  along  the  route  is  decked  out 
with  bunting  or  flags  or  a  bright  home-made  carpet, 
hung  from  a  window.  Pots  of  tall  geraniums  in  scar- 
let bloom  have  been  set  out  on  the  steps ;  and  numbers 
of  little  evergreen  trees,  or  birches  newly  in  leaf,  have 
been  brought  in  from  the  country  and  bound  to  the 
fences.  Along  the  roadside  are  gathered  all  the  Aca- 
dians  from  the  neighboring  parishes,   devoutly  gay. 


\^  i  -^ i  '» 1 1  '^ ' *^ ''i :    t  ^'; CP'P^ Breton  Tales 

enchanted  with  the  pious  spectacle.  The  choir,  follow- 
ing after  the  richly  canopied  Sacrament  and  swinging 
censers,  are  chanting  psalms  of  benediction  and  thanks- 
giving; banners  and  flags  and  veils  flutter  in  the  wind; 
the  harbor,  ice-bound  so  many  months,  is  flecked  with 
dancing  white-caps  and  purple  shadows:  surely  sum- 
mer cannot  be  far  off. 

"  When  once  the  ice  has  done  passing  down  there/^ 
they  say  —  "  which  may  happen  any  time  now  —  you 
will  seel  Perhaps  all  in  a  day  the  change  will  come. 
The  fog  that  creeps  in  so  cold  at  night  —  it  will  all  be 
sucked  up;  the  sky  will  be  clear  as  glass  down  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  water.  Ah,  the  fine  season  it  will 
be  I'' 

That  is  the  way  summer  arrives  on  the  Acadian 
shore:  everything  bursting  pell-mell  into  bloom;  dai- 
sies and  buttercups  and  August  flowers  rioting  in  the 
fields,  lilacs  and  roses  shedding  their  fragrance  in  shel- 
tered gardens;  and  over  all  the  world  a  drench  of 
unspeakable  sunlight. 

You  could  never  forget  your  first  sight  of  Arichat  if 
you  entered  its  narrow  harbor  at  this  divine  moment. 
Steep,  low  hills,  destitute  of  trees,  set  a  singularly  defi- 
nite sky-line  just  behind ;  and  the  town  runs  —  dawdles, 
rather  —  in  a  thin,  wavering  band  for  some  miles  sheer 
on  the  edge  of  the  water.  Eight  or  ten  wharves,  some 
of  them  fallen  into  dilapidation,  jut  out  at  intervals 
from  clumps  of  weatherbeaten  storehouses;  and  a  few 
small  vessels,  it  may  be,  are  lying  up  alongside  or 
anchored  idly  off  shore.    Only  the  occasional  sound  of 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  5 

a  creaking  block  or  of  a  wagon  rattling  by  on  the  hard 
roadway  breaks  the  silence. 

Along  the  street  the  houses  elbow  one  another  in 
neighborly  groups,  or  straggle  out  in  single  file,  sep- 
arated by  bits  of  declivitous  white-fenced  yard ;  and  to 
the  westward,  a  little  distance  up  the  hill,  sits  the 
square  church,  far  outvying  every  other  edifice  In  size 
and  dignity,  glistening  white,  with  a  tall  bronze  Virgin 
on  the  peak  of  the  roof  —  Our  Lady  of  the  Assump- 
tion, the  special  patron  of  the  Acadlans. 

But  what  impresses  you  above  all  is  the  incredible 
vividness  of  color  in  this  landscape :  the  dazzling  gold- 
green  of  the  fields,  heightened  here  and  there  by  lumi- 
nous patches  of  foam-white  where  the  daisies  are  in 
full  carnival,  or  subdued  to  duller  tones  where,  on  un- 
cultivated ground,  moss-hummocks  and  patches  of  rock 
break  through  the  investiture  of  grass.  The  sky  has 
so  much  room  here  too:  the  whole  world  seems  to  be 
adrift  in  azure;  the  thin  strip  of  land  hangs  poised 
between,  claimed  equally  by  firmament  and  the  waters 
under  it. 

In  the  old  days,  they  tell  us,  Arichat  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent place  from  now.  Famous  among  the  seaports 
of  the  Dominion,  it  saw  a  continual  coming  and  going 
of  brigs  and  ships  and  barquentlnes  in  the  South  Amer- 
ican fish  trade. 

"  But  if  you  had  known  it  then !  "  they  say.  "  The 
wharves  were  as  thick  all  the  length  of  the  harbor  as 
the  teeth  of  a  comb;  and  in  winter,  when  the  vessels 
were  laid  up  —  eh,  mon  Dieu  I  you  would  have  called  it 


6  Cape  Breton  Tales 

a  forest,  for  all  the  masts  and  spars  you  saw  there. 
No  indeed,  It  was  not  dreamed  of  in  those  days  that 
Arichat  would  ever  come  to  this  I  " 

So  passes  the  world's  glory  I  An  air  of  tender, 
almost  jealous  reminiscence  hangs  about  the  town;  and 
in  its  gentle  decline  into  obscurity  it  has  kept  a  sort  of 
dignity,  a  self-possession,  a  certain  look  of  wisdom  and 
experience,  which  in  a  sense  make  it  proof  against  all 
arrows  of  outrageous  Fortune. 

Back  from  the  other  shore  of  the  harbor,  jutting  out 
for  some  miles  into  Chedabucto  Bay,  lies  the  Cape. 
You  get  a  view  of  it  if  you  climb  to  the  crest  of  the 
hill  —  a  broad  reach  of  barrens,  fretted  all  day  by  the 
sea.  Out  there  it  is  what  the  Acadians  call  a  bad 
country.  About  the  sluice-like  coves  that  have  been 
eaten  into  its  rocky  shore  are  scrambling  groups  of 
fishermen's  houses ;  but  aside  from  these  and  the  light- 
house on  the  spit  of  rocks  to  southward,  the  region  is 
uninhabited  —  a  waste  of  rock  and  swamp-alder  and 
scrub-balsam,  across  which  a  single  thread  of  a  road 
takes  its  circuitous  way,  dipping  over  steep  low  hills, 
turning  out  for  gnarls  of  rock  and  patches  of  gleaming 
tnarsh,  losing  itself  amid  dense  thickets  of  alder,  then 
emerging  upon  some  bare  hilltop,  where  the  whole 
measureless  sweep  of  sea  and  sky  fills  the  vision. 

When  the  dusk  begins  to  fall  of  an  autumn  after- 
noon —  between  dog  and  wolf,  as  the  saying  goes  — 
you  could  almost  believe  in  the  strange  noises  —  the 
rumblings,  clankings,  shrill  voices  —  that  are  to  be 
heard  above  the  dull  roar  of  the  sea  by  belated  passers 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  7 

on  the  barrens.  Some  people  have  seen  death-fires 
too,  and  a  headless  creature,  much  like  a  horse,  gallop- 
ing through  the  darkness;  and  over  there  at  Fougere's 
Cove,  the  most  remote  settlement  of  the  Cape,  there 
were  knockings  at  doors  through  all  one  winter  from 
hands  not  human.  The  Fougeres  —  they  were  mostly 
of  one  tribe  there  —  were  driven  to  desperation;  they 
consulted  a  priest;  they  protected  themselves  with 
blessed  images,  with  prayers  and  holy  water;  and  no 
harm  came  to  them,  though  poor  Marcelle,  who  was  a 
jeune  fille  of  marriageable  age,  was  prostrated  for  a 
year  with  the  fright  of  it. 

This  barren  territory,  where  nothing  grows  above 
the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder,  still  goes  by  the  name 
of  "the  woods"  —  les  hois  —  among  the  Acadians. 
"  Once  the  forest  was  magnificent  here,"  they  tell  you 
—  "  trees  as  tall  as  the  church  tower;  but  the  great  fire 
swept  it  all  away;  and  never  has  there  been  a  good 
growth  since.  For  one  thing,  you  see,  we  must  get  our 
firewood  from  it  somehow." 

This  fact  accounts  for  a  curious  look  in  the  ubiqui- 
tous stubby  evergreens:  their  lower  branches  spread 
flat  and  wide  close  on  the  ground,  —  that  is  where  the 
snow  in  winter  protects  them,  —  and  above  reaches  a 
thin,  spire-like  stem,  tri'mmed  close,  except  for  new 
growth  at  the  top,  of  all  its  branches.  It  gives  sug- 
gestion of  a  harsh,  misshapen,  all  but  defeated  exist- 
ence; the  adverse  forces  are  so  tyrannical  out  here  on 
the  Cape,  the  material  of  life  so  sparse. 

I    remember    once    meeting    a    little    funeral    train 


8  Cape  Breton  Tales 

crossing  the  barrens.  They  were  bearing  the  body  of 
a  young  girl,  Anna  Bejean,  to  its  last  rest,  five  miles 
away  by  the  road,  in  the  yard  of  the  parish  church 
amongst  the  wooden  crosses.  The  long  box  of  pine 
lay  on  the  bottom  of  a  country  wagon,  and  a  wreath 
of  artificial  flowers  and  another  of  home-dyed  immor- 
telles were  fastened  to  the  cover.  A  young  fisherman, 
sunburned  and  muscular,  was  leading  the  horse  along 
the  rough  road,  and  behind  followed  three  or  four 
carts,  carrying  persons  in  black,  all  of  middle  age  or 
beyond,  and  silent. 

Yet  in  the  full  tide  of  summer  the  barrens  have  a 
beauty  in  which  this  characteristic  melancholy  is  only 
a  persistent  undertone.  Then  the  marshes  flush  rose- 
pink  with  lovely  multitudes  of  calopogons  that  cluster 
like  poising  butterflies  amongst  the  dark  grasses ;  here 
too  the  canary-yellow  bladderwort  flecks  the  black 
pools,  and  the  red,  leathery  pitcher-plant  springs  in 
sturdy  clumps  from  the  moss-hummocks.  And  the 
wealth  of  color  over  all  the  country !  —  gray  rock 
touched  into  life  with  sky-reflections;  rusty  green  of 
alder  thickets,  glistening  silver-green  of  balsam  and 
juniper;  and  to  the  sky-line,  wherever  it  can  keep  its 
hold,  the  thin,  variegated  carpet  of  close-cropped 
grass,  where  creeping  berries  of  many  kinds  grow  In 
profusion.  Flocks  of  sheep  scamper  untended  over  the 
barrens  all  day,  and  groups  of  horses,  turned  out  to 
shift  for  themselves  while  the  fishing  season  keeps  their 
owners  occupied,  look  for  a  moment,  nose  In  the  air, 
at  the  passer,  kick  up  their  heels,  and  race  off. 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  9 

As  you  turn  back  again  toward  Arlchat  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  its  glistening  white  church,  miles  distant  in 
reality,  but  looking  curiously  near,  across  a  landscape 
where  none  of  the  familiar  standards  of  measure 
exist.  You  lose  it  on  the  next  decline;  then  it  flashes 
in  sight  again,  and  the  blue,  sun-burnished  expanse  of 
water  between.  It  occurs  to  you  that  the  whole  life  of 
of  the  country  finds  its  focus  there:  christenings  and 
first  communions,  marriages  and  burials  —  how  won- 
derfully the  church  holds  them  all  in  her  keeping;  how 
she  sends  out  her  comfort  and  her  exhortation,  her 
reproach  and  her  eternal  hope  across  even  this  bad 
country,  where  the  circumstances  of  human  life  are  so 
ungracious. 

But  it  is  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when,  in  response  to 
the  quavering  summons  of  the  chapel  bell,  the  whole 
countryside  gives  up  Its  population,  that  you  get  the 
clearest  notion  of  what  religion  means  In  the  life  of 
the  Acadians.  From  the  doorway  of  our  house,  which 
was  close  to  the  road  at  the  upper  end  of  the  harbor, 
we  could  see  the  whole  church-going  procession  from 
the  outlying  districts.  The  passing  would  be  almost 
unbroken  from  eight  o'clock  on  for  more  than  an  hour 
and  a  half :  a  varied,  vivacious,  friendly  human  stream. 
They  came  In  hundreds  from  the  scattered  villages  and 
ha'mlets  of  the  parish  —  from  Petit  de  Grat  and  Little 
Anse  and  Pig  Cove  and  Gros  Nez  and  Point  Rouge 
and  Cap  au  Guet,  eight  or  nine  miles  often  enough. 

First,  those  who  went  afoot  and  must  allow  plenty 
of  time  on  account  of  age :  bent  old  fishermen,  whose 


10  Cape  Breton  Tales 

yellowed  and  shiny  coats  had  been  made  for  more 
robust  shoulders ;  old  women,  invariably  in  short  black 
capes,  and  black  bonnets  tied  tight  under  the  chin,  and 
in  their  hands  a  rosary  and  perhaps  a  thumb-worn  mis- 
sal. Then  troops  of  children,  much  endimanche,  — 
one  would  like  to  say  "  Sundayfied,"  —  trotting  along 
noisily,  stopping  to  examine  every  object  of  interest  by 
the  way,  extracting  all  the  excitement  possible  out  of 
the  weekly  pilgrimage. 

A  little  later  the  procession  became  more  general: 
young  and  old  and  middle-aged  together.  In  Sunday 
boots  that  creaked  loudly  passed  numbers  of  men  and 
boys,  sometimes  five  or  six  abreast,  reaching  from  side 
to  side  of  the  street,  sometimes  singly  attendant  upon 
a  conscious  young  person  of  the  other  sex.  The  wag- 
ons are  beginning  to  appear  now,  scattering  the  pedes- 
trians right  and  left  as  they  rattle  by,  bearing  whole 
families  packed  in  little  space;  and  away  across  the 
harbor,  you  see  a  small  fleet  of  brown  sails  putting  off 
from  the  Cape  for  the  nearer  shore. 

Outside  the  church,  in  the  open  space  before  the 
steps,  is  gathered  a  constantly  growing  multitude,  a 
dense,  restless  swarm  of  humanity,  full  of  gossip  and 
prognostic,  until  suddenly  the  bell  stops  its  clangor 
overhead;  then  there  is  a  surging  up  the  steps  and 
through  the  wide  doors  of  the  sanctuary;  and  outside 
all  is  quiet  once  more. 

The  Acadians  do  not  appear  greatly  to  relish  the 
more  solemn  things  of  religion.  They  like  better  a 
religion  demurely  gay,  pervaded  by  light  and  color. 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  1 1 

"  Elle  est  tres  chic,  notre  petite  eglise,  n'est-ce  pas?  " 
was  a  comment  made  by  a  pious  soul  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, eager  to  uphold  the  honor  of  her  parish. 

Proper,  mild-featured  saints  and  smiling  Virgins  in 
painted  robes  and  gilt  haloes  abound  in  the  Acadian 
churches;  on  the  altars  are  lavish  decorations  of  arti- 
ficial flowers  —  silver  lilies,  paper  roses,  red  and  purple 
immortelles;  and  the  ceilings  and  pillars  and  wall- 
spaces  are  often  done  in  blue  and  pink,  with  gold  stars; 
such  a  style,  one  imagines,  as  might  appeal  to  our  mod- 
ern St.  Valentine.  The  piety  that  expresses  itself  in 
this  inoffensive  gayety  of  embellishment  is  more  akin 
to  that  which  moves  universal  humanity  to  don  its 
finery  o'  Sundays,  —  to  the  greater  glory  of  God,  — 
than  to  the  sombre,  death-remembering  zeal  of  some 
other  communities.  A  kind  religion  this,  one  not  with- 
out its  coquetries,  gracious,  tactful,  irresistible,  inter- 
weaving itself  throughout  the  very  texture  of  the  com- 
mon life. 

Last  summer,  out  at  Petit  de  Grat,  three  miles  from 
Arichat,  where  the  people  have  just  built  a  little  church 
of  their  own,  they  held  a  "  Grand  Picnic  and  Ball  "  for 
the  raising  of  funds  with  which  to  erect  a  glebe  house. 
The  priest  authorized  the  affair,  but  stipulated  that 
sunset  should  end  each  day's  festivities,  so  that  all 
decencies  might  be  respected.  This  parish  picnic  started 
on  a  Monday  and  continued  daily  for  the  rest  of  the 
week  —  that  is  to  say,  until  all  that  there  was  to  sell 
was  sold,  and  until  all  the  youth  of  the  vicinity  had 
danced  their  legs  to  exhaustion. 


12  Cape  Breton  Tales 

An  unoccupied  shop  was  given  over  to  the  sale  of 
cakes,  tartines,  doughnuts,  imported  fruits,  syrup 
drinks  (unauthorized  beverages  being  obtainable  else- 
where), to  the  vending  of  chances  on  wheels  of  for- 
tune, target-shooting,  dice-throwing,  hooked  rugs, 
shawls,  couvertures,  knitted  hoods,  and  the  like;  and 
above  all  the  hubbub  and  excitement  twanged  the  cease- 
less, inevitable  voice  of  a  graphophone,  reviving  long- 
forgotten  rag-time. 

Outside,  most  conspicuous  on  the  treeless  slope  of 
hill,  was  a  "  pavilion  "  of  boards,  bunting-decked,  on 
which,  from  morn  till  eve,  rained  the  incessant  clump- 
clump  of  happy  feet.  For  music  there  was  a  succes- 
sion of  performers  and  of  instruments :  a  mouth-organ, 
a  fiddle,  a  concertina,  each  lending  its  particular  qual- 
ity of  gayety  to  the  dance;  the  mouth-organ,  shrill, 
extravagant,  whimsical,  failing  in  richness ;  the  concer- 
tina, rich,  noisy,  impetuous,  failing  in  fine  shades;  the 
fiddle,  wheedling,  provocative,  but  a  little  thin.  And 
besides  —  the  fiddle  is  not  what  it  used  to  be  in  the 
hands  of  old  Fortune. 

Fortune  died  a  year  ago,  and  he  was  never  appre- 
ciated till  death  snatched  him  from  us:  the  skinniest, 
most  ramshackle  of  mankind,  tall,  loose-jointed,  shuf- 
fling in  gait;  at  all  other  times  than  those  that  called 
his  art  into  play,  a  shiftless,  hang-dog  sort  of  person- 
age, who  would  always  be  begging  a  coat  of  you,  or 
asking  the  gift  of  ten  cents  to  buy  him  some  tobacco. 
But  at  a  dance  he  was  a  despot  unchallenged.  Only  to 
hear   him   jig   off    the    Irish   Washerwoman    was    to 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  13 

acknowledge  his  preeminence.  His  bleary  eyes  and 
tobacco-stained  lips  took  on  a  radiance,  his  body  rocked 
to  and  fro,  vibrated  to  the  devil-may-care  rhythm  of 
the  thing,  while  his  left  foot  emphatically  rapped  out 
the  measure. 

Until  another  genius  shall  be  raised  up  amongst  us, 
Fortune's  name  will  be  held  in  cherished  memory.  For 
that  matter,  it  is  not  likely  to  die  out,  since,  on  the  day 
of  his  death,  the  old  reprobate  was  married  to  the 
mother  of  his  seven  children  —  baptized,  married, 
administered,  and  shuffled  off  in  a  day. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  any  of  us,  somehow,  that 
Fortune  might  be  as  transitory  and  impermanent  as 
his  patron  goddess  herself.  We  had  always  accepted 
him  as  a  sort  of  ageless  thing,  a  living  symbol,  a  peri- 
patetic mortal,  coming  out  of  Petit  de  Grat,  and  going 
about,  tobacco  in  cheek,  fiddle  under  arm,  as  irrespon- 
sible as  mirth  itself  among  the  sons  of  men.  God  rest 
him!     Another  landmark  gone. 

And  old  Maximen  Foret,  too,  from  whom  one  used 
to  take  weather-wisdom  every  day  —  his  bench  out 
there  in  the  sun  is  empty.  Maximen's  shop  was  just 
across  the  street  from  our  house  —  a  long,  darkish, 
tunnel-like  place  under  a  steep  roof.  Tinware  of  all 
descriptions  hung  in  dully  shining  array  from  the  ceil- 
ing; barrels  and  a  rusty  stove  and  two  broad  low 
counters  occupied  most  of  the  floor  space,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  charged  with  a  curious  sharp  odor  in 
which  you  could  distinguish  oil  and  tobacco  and 
molasses.    The  floor  was  all  dented  full  of  little  holes, 


14  Cape  Breton  Tales 

like  a  honeycomb,  where  Maximen  had  walked  over  it 
with  his  iron-pointed  crutch;  for  he  was  something  of 
a  cripple.  But  you  rarely  had  any  occasion  to  enter 
the  smelly  little  shop,  for  no  one  ever  bought  much  of 
anything  there  nowadays. 

Instead,  you  sat  down  on  the  sunny  bench  beside  the 
old  man  —  Acadian  of  the  Acadlans  —  and  listened  to 
his  tireless,  genial  babble  —  now  French,  now  English, 
as  the  humor  struck  him. 

"  It  go  mak'  a  leetle  weat'er,  m'sleu,"  he  would 
say.  "  I  t'Ink  you  better  not  go  fur  In  the  p'tit  caneau 
t'ls  day.  Dere  Is  squall  —  la-bas  —  see,  dark  —  may 
be  t'unner.  Dat  Is  not  so  unlike,  dis  mont'.  Oh,  w'at 
a  hell  time  for  de  hays  I  " 

For  everybody  who  passed  he  had  a  greeting,  even 
for  those  who  had  hastened  his  business  troubles 
through  never  paying  their  accounts.  To  the  last  he 
never  lost  his  faith  In  their  good  Intentions. 

"  Dose  poor  devil  fishermen,"  he  would  say,  "  how- 
ever dey  mak'  leeve,  God  know.  You  t'ink  I  mak' 
'em  go  wid  notting?  It  ain't  lak  dat  wit'  me  here  yet, 
m'sleu.  Dey  pay  some  day,  when  le  bon  DIeu,  he 
send  dem  some  feesh;  dat's  sure  sure." 

If  it  happened  that  anybody  stopped  on  business,  old 
Maximen  would  hobble  to  the  door  and  tug  violently 
at  a  bell-rope. 

"  Cr-r-r-llne !     Cr-r-r-llne !  "  he  would  call. 

"  Tout  d'  suite  I  "  answered  a  shrill  voice  from  some 
remoter  portion  of  the  edifice ;  and  a  moment  later  an 
old  woman  with  straggling  white  hair,  toothless  gums. 


On  the  French  Shore  of  Cape  Breton  IS 

and  penetrating,  humorous  eyes,  deepset  under  a  fore- 
head of  Infinite  wrinkles,  would  come  shuffling  up  the 
pebble  walk  from  the  basement. 

'*  Me  volla !  "  she  would  ejaculate,  panting,  "  Me 
or  man,  he  always  know  how  to  git  me  in  a  leetle  min- 
ute, he?" 

On  Sundays  Caroline  and  Maximen  would  drive  to 
chapel  in  a  queer,  heavy,  antiquated  road-cart  that  had 
been  built  especially  for  his  use,  hung  almost  as  low 
between  the  axles  as  a  chariot. 

"  We  go  mak'  our  respec'  to  the  bon  Dieu,"  he 
would  laugh,  as  he  took  the  reins  in  hand  and  waited 
for  Celestine,  the  chunky  little  mare,  to  start  —  which 
she  did  when  the  mood  took  her. 

The  small  shop  is  closed  and  beginning  to  fall  to 
pieces.  Maximen  has  been  making  his  respects  amid 
other  surroundings  for  some  four  or  five  years,  and 
Caroline,  at  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth  of  lonely  wait- 
ing, followed  after. 

"  It  seem  lak  I  need  t'e  ol'  man  to  look  out  for,"  she 
used  to  say.  "All  t'e  day  I  listen  to  hear  t'at  bell 
again.  '  Tout  d'  suite !  I  used  to  call,  no  matter  what 
I  do  —  maybe  over  the  stove  or  pounding  my  bread ; 
and  den,  *  Me  volla,  mon  homme !  '  I  would  be  at  t'e 
shop,  ready  to  help." 

I  suppose  that  wherever  a  man  looks  in  the  world, 
if  he  but  have  the  eyes  to  see,  he  finds  as  much  of  gay- 
ety  and  pathos,  of  failure  and  courage,  as  in  any  par- 
ticular section  of  it;  yet  so  much  at  least  is  true:  that 
in  a  little  community  like  this,  so  removed  from  the 


16  Cape  Breton  Tales 

larger,  more  spectacular  conflicts  of  life,  so  face  to 
face,  all  the  year,  with  the  inveterate  and  domineering 
forces  of  nature,  one  seems  to  discover  a  more  poign- 
ant relief  in  all  the  homely,  familiar,  universal  epi- 
sodes of  the  hutnan  comedy. 


--.  iJ 


fl 


LA  ROSE  WITNESSETH 

OF  THE  BUCHERONS 
OF  LA  BELLE  MELANIE 

OF  Simeon's  son 


LA  ROSE  WITNESSETH 

Of  How  the  Buc herons  Were  Punished  for  Their 
Hard  Hearts 


T  was  a  boy  of  ten  who  listened  to  La  Rose, 
and  while  he  listened,  the  sun  stood  still  in 
the  sky,  there  was  an  enchantment  on  all 
the  world.  Whatever  La  Rose  said  you  had 
to  believe,  somehow.  Oh,  I  assure  you,  no  one  could 
be  more  exacting  than  she  in  the  matter  of  proofs. 
For  persons  who  would  give  an  ear  to  any  absurd  story 
tattled  abroad  she  had  nothing  but  contempt. 

"  Before  you  believe  a  thing,"  said  La  Rose,  sagely, 
"  you  must  know  whether  it  is  true  or  not.  That  is 
the  most  important  part  of  a  stor}\" 

She  would  give  a  decisive  nod  to  her  small  head  and 
shut  her  lips  together  almost  defiantly.  Yet  always, 
somewhere  in  the  corner  of  her  alert  gray  eye,  there 
seemed  to  be  lurking  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle.  La  Rose 
had  no  age.  She  was  both  very  young  and  very  old. 
For  all  she  had  never  traveled  more  than  ten  miles 
from  the  little  Cape  Breton  town  of  Port  I'Eveque, 
you  had  the  feeling  that  she  had  seen  a  good  deal  of 
the  world,  and  it  is  certain  that  her  life  had  not  been 
easy;  yet  she  would  laugh  a$  quickly  and  abundantly 
as  a  young  girl  just  home  from  the  convent. 

These  two  were  the  best  of  comrades.  La  Rose  had 
been  the  boy's  nurse  when  he  was  little,  and  as  he  had 


20  Cape  Breton  Tales 

no  mother  she  had  kept  a  feeling  of  special  affection 
and  responsibility  for  him.  Thus  it  happened  that 
whenever  she  was  making  some  little  expedition  out 
across  the  harbor  —  say  for  blueberries  on  the  barrens, 
or  white  moorberries,  or  ginseng  —  she  would  get  per- 
mission from  the  captain  for  Michel  to  go  with  her; 
and  this  was  the  happiest  privilege  in  the  boy's  life. 
Most  of  all  because  of  the  stories  La  Rose  would  tell 
him. 

La  Rose  had  a  story  to  tell  about  every  spot  they  vis- 
ited, about  every  person  they  passed.  She  had  been 
brought  up,  herself,  out  here  on  the  Cape ;  and  not  an 
inch  of  its  territory  but  was  familiar  to  her. 

"  Now  that  is  where  those  Bucherons  lived,"  she  ob- 
served one  day,  as  they  were  walking  homeward  from 
Pig  Cove  by  the  Calvaire  road.  "  They  are  all  gone 
now,  and  the  house  is  almost  fallen  to  pieces ;  but  once 
things  were  lively  enough  there  —  mon  Dieu,  oui  I  — 
quite  lively  enough  for  comfort." 

She  gave  a  sagacious  nod  to  her  head,  with  the  look 
of  one  who  could  say  more,  and  would,  if  you  urged 
her  a  little. 

"  Was  it  at  the  Bucherons'  that  all  the  chairs  stood 
on  one  leg?  "  asked  Michel,  thrilling  mysteriously. 

"  Oui,  c'est  ga,"  answered  La  Rose,  in  a  voice  of  the 
most  sepulchral,  "  right  there  in  that  house,  the  chairs 
stood  on  one  leg  and  went  rap  —  rap  —  against  the 
floor.  And  more  than  once  a  table  with  dishes  and 
other  things  on  it  fell  over,  and  there  were  strange 
sounds  in  the  cupboard.     Oh,  it  is  certain  those  Buch- 


Of  the  Bucherons  21 

erons  were  tormented;  but  for  that  matter  they  had 
brought  it  on  themselves  because  of  their  greediness 
and  their  hard  hearts.  It  came  for  a  punishment;  and 
when  they  repented  themselves,  it  went  away." 

"  I  haven't  ever  heard  all  the  story  about  the  Buch- 
erons," said  Michel  —  "  or  at  least,  not  since  I  was 
big.    I  am  almost  sure  I  would  like  it." 

"  Well,  I  daresay,"  agreed  La  Rose.  "  It  is  an  inter- 
esting story  in  some  ways ;  and  the  best  of  it  is,  it  is  not 
one  of  those  stories  that  are  only  to  make  you  laugh, 
and  then  you  go  right  away  and  forget  them.  And 
another  thing:  this  story  about  the  Bucherons  really 
happened.  It  was  when  my  poor  stepmother  was  a  girl. 
She  lived  at  Pig  Cove  then,  and  that  is  only  two  miles 
from  Gros  Nez.  And  one  of  those  Bucherons  was 
once  wanting  to  marry  her ;  but  do  you  think  she  would 
have  anything  to  do  with  a  man  like  that? 

"  '  No,'  she  said.  '  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you.  I  would  sooner  not  ever  be  married,  me,  than  to 
have  you  for  my  man.' 

*'And  the  reason  she  spoke  that  way  was  because  of 
the  cruelty  they  had  shown  toward  that  poor  widow  of 
a  Noemi,  which  everybody  on  the  Cape  knew  about, 
and  it  was  a  great  scandal.  And  if  you  want  me  to  tell 
you  about  it,  that  is  what  I  am  going  to  do  now." 

La  Rose  seated  herself  on  a  flat  rock  by  the  road, 
and  Michel  found  another  for  himself  close  by.  Be- 
low them  lay  a  deep  rocky  cove,  with  shores  as  steep 
as  a  sluice,  and  close  above  its  Inner  margin  stood  the 
shell  of  a  small  house.    The  chimney  had  fallen  in,  the 


22  Cape  Breton  Tales 

windows  were  all  gone  —  only  vacant  holes  now, 
through  which  you  saw  the  daylight  from  the  other 
side,  and  the  roof  had  begun  to  sag. 

"  Yes,"  said  La  Rose,  "  it  will  soon  be  gone  to  pieces 
entirely,  and  then  there  will  be  nothing  to  remind  any- 
one of  those  Bucherons  and  what  torments  they  had. 
You  see  there  were  four  of  them,  an  old  woman  and 
two  sons,  and  one  of  the  sons  was  married,  but  there 
were  not  any  children;  and  all  those  four  must  have 
had  stones  instead  of  hearts.  They  were  only  thinking 
how  they  could  get  the  better  of  other  people,  and  so 
become  rich. 

"And  before  that  there  had  been  three  sons  at  home; 
but  one  of  them  —  Benoit  his  name  was  —  had  married 
a  certain  Noemi  Boudrot;  and  she  was  as  sweet  and 
beautiful  as  a  lily,  and  he  too  was  different  from  the 
others;  and  so  they  had  not  lived  here,  but  had  got  a 
little  house  at  Pig  Cove,  where  they  were  very  happy; 
and  the  good  God  sent  them  two  children,  of  a  beauty 
and  gentleness  indescribable;  and  they  called  them 
fivangeline  and  little  Benoit,  but  you  do  not  need  to 
remember  that,  because  it  is  not  a  part  of  the  story. 

"  So  things  went  on  that  way  for  quite  a  while;  and 
all  the  time  those  four  Bucherons  were  growing  more 
and  more  hard-hearted,  like  four  serpents  in  a  pile 
together. 

*'  Well,  one  day  in  October  that  Benoit  Bucheron 
who  lived  in  Pig  Cove  was  going  alone  in  a  small  cart 
to  Port  rfiveque  to  buy  some  provisions  for  winter  — 
flour,  I  suppose,  and  meal,  and  perhaps  some  clothes 


Of  the  Bucherons  23 

and  some  tobacco;  and  Instead  of  going  direct  by  the 
Gros  Nez  road,  he  came  around  this  way  by  the  Cal- 
vaire  so  as  to  stop  in  and  speak  to  his  relatives;  and  to 
see  them  welcoming  him,  you  would  never  have  sus- 
pected their  stone  hearts.  But  Benoit  was  solemn  for 
all  that,  as  if  troubled  by  some  idea.  Then  that  sly 
old  mother,  she  said: 

"  '  Dear  Benoit,'  she  said,  '  what  troubles  you?  Can 
you  not  put  trust  in  your  own  mother,  who  loves  you 
better  than  her  eyes  and  nose?  ' — and  she  smiled  at 
him  just  Hke  a  fat  wicked  old  spider  that  is  waiting  for 
a  fly  to  come  and  get  tangled  up  in  her  net. 

"  But  Benoit  only  remembered  then  that  she  was  his 
mother;  so  he  said; 

"  'I  have  a  fear,  me,  that  I  shall  not  be  long  for  this 
world,  my  mother.  Last  week  I  saw  a  little  blue  fire 
on  the  barrens  one  night,  and  again  one  night  I  heard 
hoofs  going  da quin-cla quant  down  there  on  the  beach, 
much  like  the  horse  without  head.  And  that  is  why  I 
am  getting  my  provisions  so  early,  and  making  every- 
thing ready  for  the  winter.  See,'  he  said,  '  here  is  the 
thirteen  dollars  I  have  saved  this  year.  I  am  going  to 
buy  things  with  it  in  Port  I'Eveque.' 

"  Now  you  may  depend  that  when  he  showed  them 
all  that  money,  their  eyes  stuck  out  like  the  eyes  of 
crabs;  but  of  course  they  did  not  say  anything  only 
some  words  of  the  most  comforting.  And  finally  he 
said,  getting  ready  to  go : 

"  '  If  anything  should  happen,'  he  said,  *  will  you 
promise  me  to  be  good  to  that  poor  Noemi  and  those 


24  Cape  Breton  Tales 

two  poor  little  innocent  lambs?  '  —  and  those  serpents 
said,  certainly,  they  would  do  all  that  was  possible; 
and  with  that  Benoit  gets  into  his  cart,  and  starts  down 
the  hill;  and  suddenly  the  horse  takes  a  fright  of  some- 
thing and  runs  away,  and  the  cart  tips  over,  and  Benoit 
is  thrown  out;  and  when  his  brothers  get  to  him  he  is 
quite  quite  dead  —  and  that  shows  what  it  means  to 
see  one  of  those  little  blue  fires  at  night  in  the  woods. 

"  Well,  you  can  believe  that  Noemi  was  not  very 
happy  when  they  brought  back  that  poor  Benoit  to  Pig 
Cove.  Her  eyes  were  like  two  brooks,  and  for  a  long 
time  she  could  not  say  anything,  and  then  finally,  sum- 
moning a  little  voice  of  courage : 

"  *  I  am  glad  of  one  thing,'  she  said,  *  which  is  that 
he  had  saved  all  that  money,  for  without  it  I  would 
never  know  how  to  live  through  the  winter.' 

"And  one  of  those  brothers  said,  with  an  innocent 
voice  of  a  dove,  *  what  money  then?  '  —  and  she  said, 
'  He  had  it  with  him.'  And  so  they  look  for  it;  but  no, 
there  is  not  any. 

"  '  You  must  have  deceived  yourself,'  said  that 
brother.  *  I  am  sure  he  would  have  spoken  of  it  if  he 
had  had  any  money  with  him ;  but  he  said  never  a  word 
of  such  a  thing.' 

"  Now  was  not  that  a  wicked  lie  for  him  to  tell?  It 
is  hard  to  understand  how  abominable  can  be  some  of 
those  men !  But  you  may  be  sure  they  will  be  punished 
for  it  in  the  end;  and  that  is  what  happened  to  those 
four  serpents,  the  Bucherons. 

"  For  listen.    The  old  mother  had  taken  the  money 


Of  the  Bucherons  25 

and  had  put  it  inside  a  sort  of  covered  bowl,  like  a 
sugar  bowl,  but  there  was  no  sugar  in  it;  and  then  she 
had  set  this  bowl  away  on  a  shelf  in  the  cupboard 
where  they  kept  the  dishes  and  such  things;  and  the 
Bucherons  thought  it  would  be  safe  until  the  time  when 
they  had  something  to  spend  it  for  in  Port  I'fiveque; 
and  they  were  telling  themselves  how  no  one  would 
ever  know  what  they  had  done;  and  they  were  glad 
that  the  promise  they  had  made  to  Benoit  had  not  been 
heard  by  anyone  but  themselves.  And  so  that  poor 
Noemi  was  left  all  alone  without  man  or  money;  but 
sometimes  the  neighbors  would  give  her  a  little  food; 
but  for  all  that  those  two  lambs  were  often  hungry, 
and  their  mother  too,  when  it  came  bedtime. 

"  But  do  you  think  the  Bucherons  cared  —  those  four 
hearts  of  stone?  They  would  not  even  give  her  so 
much  as  a  crust  of  dry,  mouldy  bread;  and  Noemi  was 
too  proud  to  go  and  beg;  and  beside  something  seemed 
to  tell  her  that  there  had  been  a  wickedness  somewhere, 
and  that  the  Bucherons  perhaps  knew  more  than  they 
had  told  her  about  that  money.  So  she  waited  to  see 
if  anything  would  happen. 

"  Now  one  night  in  December,  when  all  those  four 
were  in  the  house  alone,  the  beginning  of  their  punish- 
ment arrived,  and  surely  nothing  more  strange  was 
ever  heard  of  in  this  world. 

"  'Ah,  mon  Dieu !  '  cries  out  the  married  woman  all 
of  a  sudden  —  '  mon  Dieu,  what  is  that  I  ' 

"  They  all  looked  where  she  was  looking,  and  what 
do  you  think  they  saw?    There  was  a  chair  standing 


26  Cape  Breton  Tales 

with  three  legs  in  the  air,  and  only  the  little  point  of 
one  on  the  floor. 

"  The  old  woman  pushed  a  scream  and  jumped  to 
her  feet  and  went  over  to  it,  and  with  much  force  set  it 
back  on  the  floor,  the  way  a  chair  is  meant  to  stand; 
but  immediately  when  she  let  go  of  it,  there  it  was 
again,  as  before,  all  on  one  leg. 

"And  then,  there  cries  out  the  younger  woman  again, 
with  a  voice  shrill  as  a  frightened  horse  that  throws  up 
its  head  and  then  runs  away  — '  Oh,  mere  Bucheron, 
mere  Bucheron,'  cries  she,  '  the  chair  you  were  just  sit- 
ting in  is  three  legs  in  air  too !  ' 

"And  so  it  was !  With  that  all  the  family  got  up  in 
terror;  but  no  sooner  had  they  done  that  than  at  once 
all  the  chairs  behaved  just  like  the  first,  which  made 
five  chairs.  These  chairs  did  not  seem  to  move  at  all, 
but  stood  there  on  one  leg  just  as  if  they  were  always 
like  that.  Those  Bucherons  were  almost  dead  with 
fright,  and  all  four  of  them  fled  out  of  the  house  as  fast 
as  ever  their  legs  could  carry  them  —  you  would  have 
said  sheep  chased  by  a  mad  dog  —  and  never  stopped 
for  breath  till  they  reached  Gros  Nez. 

"And  pell-mell  into  old  Pierre  Leblanc's  house  all 
together,  and  shaking  like  ague.  Hardly  able  to  talk, 
they  tell  what  has  happened;  and  he  will  not  believe 
them  but  says,  well,  he  will  go  back  with  them  and  see. 
So  he  does,  and  they  re-enter  the  house  together,  and 
look!  the  chairs  are  all  just  as  usual. 

"  '  You  have  been  making  some  crazy  dreams,'  says 
Pierre,  rather  angry,   '  or  else,'  he  says,   *  you  have 


Of  the  Bucherons  27 

something  bad  In  your  hearts.'  And  with  that  he  goes 
home  again ;  and  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  told  about 
that  night,  though  I  daresay  none  of  those  wicked  per- 
sons slept  very  well. 

"  But  that  was  only  the  beginning  of  what  happened 
to  them  during  that  winter.  Sometimes  it  would  be 
these  knockings  about  the  roof,  as  of  someone  with  a 
great  hammer;  and  again  it  was  as  if  they  had  seen  a 
face  at  the  window  —  just  an  instant,  all  white,  in  the 
dark  —  and  then  it  would  be  gone.  And  often,  often, 
the  chairs  would  be  standing  as  before  on  one  leg.  The 
table  likewise,  which  once  let  fall  a  great  crowd  of 
dishes,  and  not  a  few  were  broken.  But  worst  of  all 
were  these  strange  sounds  that  made  themselves  heard 
in  the  cupboard,  like  the  hand  of  a  corpse  going  rap  — 
rap,  rap  —  rap  —  rap,  rap,  —  against  the  lid  of  its 
coffin.  You  may  well  believe  it  was  a  dreadful  fright 
for  those  four  infamous  ones;  but  still  they  would  do 
nothing,  because  of  their  desire  to  keep  all  that  money 
and  buy  things  with  it. 

"  Everybody  on  the  Cape  soon  knew  about  what  was 
happening  at  the  Bucherons',  but  some  pretended  it 
was  to  laugh  at,  saying  that  such  things  did  not  happen 
nowadays;  and  others  said  the  Bucherons  must  have 
gone  crazy,  and  had  better  be  left  alone  —  and  their 
arms  and  legs  would  sometimes  keep  jerking  a  little 
when  they  talked  to  anyone,  as  my  stepmother  told  me 
a  thousand  times;  and  they  had  a  way  of  looking 
behind  them  —  so !  —  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  being 
pursued.  So  however  that  might  be,  nobody  would  go 
and  see  them. 


28  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"  Well,  things  went  on  like  that  for  quite  a  while, 
and  finally,  one  day  in  February,  through  all  the  snow 
that  it  made  on  the  ground  then,  that  poor  Noemi 
marched  on  her  feet  from  Pig  Cove  to  her  mother-in- 
law's,  having  left  her  two  infants  at  a  neighbor's;  for 
she  had  resolved  herself  to  ask  for  some  help,  seeing 
that  she  had  had  nothing  but  a  little  bite  since  three 
days.  And  when  they  saw  her  coming  they  were  taken 
with  a  fright,  and  at  first  they  were  not  going  to  let 
her  in;  but  that  old  snake  of  a  mother,  she  said: 

"  *  If  we  refuse  to  let  her  in,  my  children,  she  will  go 
and  suspect  something.' 

"  So  they  let  her  in,  and  when  she  was  in,  they  let 
her  make  all  her  story,  or  as  much  as  she  had  breath 
for,  and  then : 

"  '  I  am  sorry,'  said  this  old  snake  of  a  mother,  *  that 
we  cannot  possibly  do  anything  for  you.  Alas,  my  dear 
little  daughter,  it  is  barely  even  if  we  can  manage  to 
hold  soul  and  body  together  ourselves,  with  the  terrible 
winter  it  niakes  these  days.' 

"And  just  as  she  said  that,  what  do  you  think  hap- 
pened? A  chair  got  on  one  leg  and  went  rap  —  rap, 
rap  —  against  the  floor. 

"  That  Noemi  would  often  be  telling  about  it  after- 
wards to  my  stepmother,  and  she  said  never  of  her  life 
had  she  seen  anything  so  terrifying.  But  she  did  not 
scream  or  do  anything  like  that,  because  something, 
she  said,  inside  her  seemed  to  bid  her  keep  quiet  just 
then.  And  she  used  to  tell  how  that  old  Bucheron 
woman's  face  turned  exactly  the  color  of  an  oyster  on 


Of  the  Bucherons  29 

a  white  plate,  and  a  trembling  took  her,  and  finally  she 
said,  scarcely  able  to  make  the  sound  of  the  words : 

"  '  Though  perhaps  —  I  might  find  —  a  crust  of 
bread  somewhere  that  —  that  we  could  spare.' 

"That  was  how  she  spoke,  and  at  the  same  instant, 
rap  went  the  chair,  still  on  its  one  leg;  and  there  was  a 
sound  of  a  hammering  on  the  roof. 

"  '  Or  perhaps  —  a  little  loaf  of  bread  and  some 
potatoes,'  said  that  old  Bucheron,  while  the  other 
Bucherons  sat  there  without  one  word,  in  their  chairs, 
as  if  paralyzed,  except  that  their  hands  kept  up  a  little 
shaking  motion  all  the  time,  like  this  scour-grass  you 
get  in  the  marsh,  which  trembles  always  even  if  there 
is  not  any  wind.  '  Or  perhaps  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some 
potatoes'  —  that  is  what  she  was  saying,  when  listen, 
there  is  a  knock  as  of  the  hand  of  corpse  just  Inside  the 
cupboard ;  and  suddenly  the  two  doors  fly  open  —  you 
would  have  said  pushed  from  the  Inside  I 

"  NoemI  crosses  herself,  but  does  not  say  anything, 
for  she  knows  It  Is  a  time  to  keep  still. 

"  'And  perhaps,'  says  the  old  woman  then.  In  a  voice 
of  the  most  piteous,  as  if  someone  were  giving  her  a 
pinch,  '  and  perhaps.  If  only  I  had  it,  a  dollar  or  two  to 
help  buy  some  medicine  and  a  pair  of  shoes  for  that 
Evangeline.  .  .  But  no,  I  do  not  think  we  have  so 
much  as  that  anywhere  in  the  house.' 

"  Now  was  not  that  like  the  old  serpent,  to  be  telling 
a  He  even  at  the  last;  and  surely  if  God  had  struck  her 
dead  by  a  ball  of  lightning  at  that  moment  It  would 
have  been  none  too  good  for  her.     But  no,  he  was 


30  Cape  Breton  Tales 

going  to  give  her  a  chance  to  repent  and  not  to  have  to 
go  to  Hell  for  a  punishment.  So  what  do  you  think 
He  made  happen  then? 

"Hardly  had  those  abominable  words  jumped  out 
of  her  when  with  a  great  crash,  down  off  the  top  shelf 
comes  that  sugar  bowl  (If  It  was  a  sugar  bowl),  and 
as  It  hits  the  floor,  It  breaks  Into  a  thousand  pieces; 
and  there,  in  a  little  pile,  are  those  thirteen  dollars, 
just  as  on  the  day  when  that  poor  Benoit  had  been  car- 
rying them  with  him  to  Port  I'Eveque. 

"  Now  just  as  If  they  are  not  doing  It  at  all  of  their 
own  wish,  but  something  makes  them  act  that  way,  all 
of  a  sudden  those  four  Bucherons  are  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  saying  their  prayers  in  a  strange  voice  like  the 
prayers  you  might  hear  In  a  tomb ;  and  with  that,  the 
chair  goes  back  quietly  to  Its  four  legs,  and  the  noise 
ceases  on  the  roof,  and  those  two  cupboard  doors  draw 
shut  without  human  hands.  As  for  NoemI,  she  grabs 
up  the  money,  and  out  she  goes,  swift  as  a  bird  that  Is 
carrying  a  worm  to  Its  children,  leaving  her  parents  by 
marriage  still  there  on  their  knees,  like  so  many 
images ;  but  as  she  opens  the  door  she  says : 

"  *  May  the  good  God  have  pity  on  all  the  four  of 
you  I  ' —  which  was  a  Christian  thing  to  say,  seeing 
how  much  she  had  suffered  at  their  hands. 

"  Well,  there  Is  not  much  more  to  tell.  NoemI  got 
through  the  rest  of  that  winter  without  any  more 
trouble;  and  the  next  year  she  married  a  fisherman 
from  Little  Anse,  and  went  away  from  the  Cape.  As 
for  the  Bucherons,  they  were  not  like  the  same  people 


Of  the  Bucherons  31 

any  more.  You  would  not  have  known  them  —  so 
pious  they  were  and  charitable,  though  always,  per- 
haps, a  little  strange  in  their  ways.  But  when  the  old 
woman  died,  two  years  later,  or  three,  all  the  people 
of  Pig  Cove  and  Gros  Nez  followed  the  corpse  in  to 
Port  I'Eveque ;  and  her  grave  is  there  in  the  cemetery. 
"  The  rest  of  the  family  are  gone  now  too,  as  you 
see;  and  soon,  I  suppose,  there  will  not  be  many  left, 
even  out  here  on  the  Cape,  who  know  all  about  what 
happened  to  the  Bucherons,  because  of  their  hard 
hearts ;  which  is  a  pity,  seeing  that  the  story  has  such  a 
good  lesson  to  it.    .    .    . 


LA  ROSE  WITNESSETH 

*C!/  the    Headless    Horse   and   of  La  Belle    Melanie^s 
Narrow  Escape  from  the  Feu  Follet 

NE  of  the  privileges  Michel  esteemed  most 
highly  was  that  of  accompanying  La  Rose 
occasionally  when  she  went  blueberrying 
over  on  the  barrens  —  dans  les  hois,  as  the 
phrase  still  goes  in  Port  I'fiveque,  though  it  is  all  of 
sixty  years  since  there  were  any  woods  there.  The 
best  barrens  for  blueberrying  lay  across  the  harbor. 
They  reached  back  to  the  bay  four  or  five  miles  to 
southward.  Along  the  edges  of  several  rocky  coves, 
narrow  and  steep  as  a  sluice,  clung  a  few  weather- 
beaten  fishermen's  houses;  but  there  was  no  other  sign 
of  human  habitation. 

It  is  what  they  call  a  bad  country  over  there.  Alder 
and  scrub  balsam  grow  sparsely  over  the  low  rocky 
hills,  where  little  flocks  of  sheep  nibble  all  day  at  the 
thin  herbage ;  and  from  the  marshes  that  lie,  green  and 
mossy,  at  the  foot  of  every  slope,  a  solitary  loon  may 
occasionally  be  seen  rising  into  the  air  with  a  great 
spread  of  slow  wings.  A  single  thread  of  a  road 
makes  its  way  somehow  across  the  region,  twisting  in 
and  out  among  the  small  hills,  now  climbing  suddenly 
to  a  bare  elevation,  from  which  the  whole  sweep  of  the 

*  Included  with  permission  of  and  by  arrangements  with  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 
authorized  publishers. 


Of  LaBelle  Melanie  33 

sea  bursts  upon  the  view,  now  shelving  off  along  the 
side  of  a  knoll  of  rocks,  quickly  dipping  into  some 
close  hollow,  where  the  world  seems  to  reach  no 
farther  than  to  the  strange  sky-line,  wheeling  sharply 
against  infinite  space. 

Two  miles  back  from  the  inner  shore,  the  road 
forks  at  the  base  of  a  little  hill  more  conspicuously 
bare  than  the  rest,  and  close  to  the  naked  summit  of  it, 
overlooking  all  the  Cape,  stands  a  Calvary.  Nobody 
knows  how  long  it  has  stood  there,  or  why  it  was  first 
erected;  though  tradition  has  it  that  long,  long  ago,  a 
certain  man  by  the  name  of  Toussaint  was  there  set 
upon  by  wild  beasts  and  torn  to  pieces.  However  that 
may  be,  the  tall  wooden  cross,  painted  black,  and  bear- 
ing on  its  center,  beneath  a  rude  penthouse,  a  small 
Iron  crucifix,  has  been  there  longer  than  any  present 
memory  records  —  an  encouragement,  as  they  say,  for 
those  who  have  to  cross  the  bad  country  after  dark. 

"  That  makes  courage  for  you,''  they  say.  "  It  is 
good  to  know  it  is  there  on  the  windy  nights." 

By  daylight,  however,  and  especially  in  the  sunshine, 
the  barrens  are  quite  without  other  terrors  than  those 
of  loneliness;  and  upon  Michel  this  remoteness  and 
silence  always  exercised  a  kind  of  spell.  He  was  glad 
that  La  Rose  was  with  him,  partly  because  he  would 
have  been  a  little  afraid  to  be  there  quite  by  himself, 
but  chiefly  because  of  the  imaginative  sympathy  that  at 
this  time  existed  so  strongly  between  them.  La  Rose 
could  tell  him  all  about  the  strange  things  that  had 
been  seen  here  of  winter  nights ;  she  herself  once,  tend- 


34  Cape  Breton  Tales 

ing  a  poor  old  sick  woman  at  Gros  Nez,  out  at  the  end 
of  the  Cape,  had  heard  the  hoofs  of  the  white  horse 
that  gallops  across  the  barrens  claquin-claquant  in  the 
darkness. 

*'  It  was  just  there  outside  the  house,  pawing  the 
ground.  Almost  paralyzed  for  terror,  I  ran  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.     It  was  as  tall  as  the  church 

door,  —  that  animal, all  white,   and  there  was  no 

head  to  it. 

*'  '  Oh,  mere  Babinot,'  I  whispered,  scarcely  able  to 
make  the  sound  of  the  words.  '  It  is  as  tall  as  the 
church  door  and  all  white.' 

"  She  sits  up  in  bed  and  stares  at  "me  like  a  corpse. 
*  La  Rose,'  she  says,  —  just  like  that,  shrill  as  a  whistle 
of  wind,  — '  La  Rose,  do  you  see  a  head  to  it?  ' 

"'No,  not  any!' 

"  '  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu !  Then  it's  sure !  It  Is 
the  very  one,  the  horse  without  head!  ' 

"And  the  next  day  she  took  only  a  little  spoonful  of 
tea,  and  in  two  weeks  she  was  dead,  poor  mere  Babi- 
not; and  that's  as  true  as  that  I  made  my  communion 
last  Easter.  Oh,  it's  often  seen  hereabouts,  that  horse. 
It's  a  sign  that  something  will  happen,  and  never  has 
It  failed  yet." 

They  made  their  way.  La  Rose  and  Michel,  slowly 
over  the  low  hills,  picking  the  blueberries  that  grew 
thickly  In  clumps  of  green  close  to  the  ground.  La 
Rose  always  wore  a  faded  yellow-black  dress,  the  skirt 
caught  up,  to  save  It,  over  a  red  petticoat;  and  on  her 
small  brown  head  she  carried  the  old  Acadian  mou- 


Of  La  Belle  Melanie  3  5 

choir f  black,  brought  up  to  a  peak  in  front,  and  knot- 
ted at  the  side. 

She  picked  rapidly,  with  her  alert,  spry  movements, 
her  head  always  cocked  a  little  to  one  side,  almost 
humorously,  as  she  peered  about  among  the  bushes  for 
the  best  spots.  And  wherever  he  was,  Michel  heard 
her  chattering  softly  to  herself,  in  an  inconsequential 
undertone,  now  humming  a  scrap  of  some  pious  song, 
now  commenting  on  the  quality  of  the  berry  crop  — 
never  had  she  seen  so  few  and  so  small  as  these  last 
years.  Surely  there  must  be  something  to  account  for 
it.  Perhaps  the  birds  had  learned  the  habitude  of  de- 
vouring them  —  now  addressing  some  strayed  sheep 
that  had  ventured  with  timid  bleats  within  range: 
"  Te  voila,  petit  mechant !  Little  rogue !  What  are 
you  looking  about  for?  Did  the  others  go  off  and 
leave  you?  Eh  bien,  that's  how  it  happens,  mon 
petit.  They'll  leave  you.  The  world's  like  that.  Eh, 
la,  la!" 

He  liked  to  go  to  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  out  of 
sight  of  her,  where  he  could  imagine  that  he  was  lost 
dam  les  hois.  Then  he  would  listen  for  her  continual 
soft  garrulity;  and  if  he  could  not  hear  it  he  would 
wait  quietly  for  a  minute  in  the  silence,  feeling  a 
strange  exhilaration,  which  was  almost  pain,  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  sombre  spaces,  the  immense 
emptiness  of  the  overhanging  sky,  until  he  could  endure 
it  no  longer. 

"  La  Rose  I  "  he  would  call.  "  £tes-vous  toujours 
la?" 


36  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"  Mais  oui,  mon  enfant.    What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Nothing.     It  is  only  that  I  was  thinking." 

"  The  strange  child  that  you  are  I  "  she  would  ex- 
claim.   "  You  are  not  like  the  others." 

"  La  Rose,"  he  would  ask,  "  was  it  by  here  that  La 
Belle  Melanie  passed  on  the  night  she  saw  the  death 
fire?" 

"  Yes,  by  this  very  spot.  She  was  on  her  way  to  Pig 
Cove,  over  beyond  the  Calvary  to  the  east.  It  is  a 
desolate  little  rat-hole.  Pig  Cove,  nowadays;  but  then 
it  was  different  —  as  many  as  two  dozen  houses.  My 
stepmother  lived  in  one  of  them.  Now  there  are 
scarcely  six,  and  falling  to  pieces  at  that.  La  Belle 
Melanie,  she  was  a  Boudrot,  sister  of  the  Pierre  Bou- 
drot  whose  son,  Theobald,  was  brother-in-law  of  step- 
mother. That  was  many  years  ago.  They  are  all  dead 
now,  or  gone  away  from  here  —  to  Boston,  I  dare- 
say." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  that  again,  —  the  feu  follet 
and  Melanie?" 

It  was  the  story  Michel  liked  the  best,  most  of  all 
when  he  could  sit  beside  La  Rose,  on  a  moss-hummock 
of  some  rough  hill  on  the  barrens.  Perhaps  there 
would  be  cloud  shadows  flitting  like  dream  presences 
across  the  shining  face  of  the  moor.  In  the  distance, 
over  the  backs  of  the  hills  that  crouched  so  thickly 
about  them,  he  saw  the  stretch  of  the  ocean,  a  motion- 
less floor  of  azure  and  purple,  flecked,  it  might  be,  by 
a  leaning  sail  far  away;  and  now  and  then  a  gull  or 
two  would  fly  close  over  their  heads,  wheeling  and 


Of  La  Belle  Melanie  37 

screaming  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  off  again 
through  the  blue. 

"  S'il  vous  plait,  tante  La  Rose,  see  how  many  ber- 
ries I  have  picked  already!  " 

The  little  woman  was  not  difficult  of  persuasion. 

"  It  was  in  November,"  she  began.  '*  There  had  not 
been  any  snow  yet;  but  the  nights  were  cold  and  ter- 
ribly dark  under  a  sky  of  clouds.  That  autumn,  as  my 
stepmother  often  told  me,  many  people  had  seen  the 
horse  without  head  as  it  galloped  claquin-claquant 
across  the  barrens.  At  Gros  Nez  it  was  so  bad  that 
no  one  dared  go  out  after  dark,  unless  it  was  to  run 
with  all  one's  force  to  the  neighbors  —  but  not  across 
the  woods  to  save  their  souls.  Especially  because  of 
the  feu  follet. 

"  Now  you  must  know  that  the  feu  follet  is  of  all 
objects  whatever  in  the  world  the  most  mysterious.  No 
one  knows  what  it  is  or  when  it  will  come.  You  might 
walk  across  the  barrens  every  night  of  your  life  and 
never  encounter  it;  and  again  it  might  come  upon  you 
all  unawares,  not  more  than  ten  yards  from  your  own 
threshold.  It  is  more  like  a  ball  of  fire  than  any  other 
mortal  thing,  now  large,  now  small,  and  always  mov- 
ing. Usually  it  is  seen  first  hovering  over  one  of  the 
marshes,  feeding  on  the  poison  vapors  that  rise  from 
them  at  night:  it  floats  there,  all  low,  and  like  a  little 
luminous  cloud,  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  be  seen  by  the 
eye.  And  sometimes  people  can  travel  straight  by  it, 
giving  no  attention,  as  if  they  did  not  know  it  was 
there,  but  keeping  the  regard  altogether  ahead  of  them 


38  Cape  Breton  Tales 

on  the  road,  and  the  feu  follet  will  let  them  pass  with- 
out harm. 

''  But  that  does  not  happen  often,  for  there  are  not 
many  who  can  keep  their  wits  clear  enough  to  manage 
it.  It  brings  a  sort  of  dizziness,  and  one's  legs  grow 
weak.  And  then  the  feu  follet  draws  itself  together 
into  a  ball  of  fire  and  begins  to  pursue.  It  glides  over 
the  hills  and  flies  across  the  marshes,  sometimes  in 
circles,  sometimes  bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  but  all 
the  while  stealing  a  little  closer  and  a  little  closer,  no 
matter  how  fast  you  run  away.  And  finally  —  bff !  like 
that  —  it's  upon  you  —  and  that's  the  end.  Death"  for 
a  certainty.  Not  all  the  medicine  in  the  four  parishes 
can  help  you. 

*'  Indeed,  there  are  only  two  things  in  all  the  world 
that  can  save  you  from  the  feu  follet  once  it  gets  after 
you.  One  is,  if  you  are  in  a  state  of  grace,  all  your 
sins  confessed;  which  does  not  happen  often  to  the 
inhabitants  of  Pig  Cove,  for  even  at  this  day  Pere  Gal- 
land  reproaches  them  for  their  neglect.  And  the  other 
is,  if  you  have  a  needle  with  you.  So  little  a  thing  as  a 
needle  is  enough,  incredible  as  it  may  seem;  for  if  you 
stick  the  needle  upright  —  like  that  —  in  an  old  stump, 
the  feu  follet  gets  all  tangled  up  in  the  eye  of  it.  Try 
as  it  will,  it  cannot  free  itself;  and  meanwhile  you  run 
away,  and  are  safe  before  it  reappears.  That  is  why 
all  the  inhabitants  of  the  Cape  used  to  carry  a  needle 
stuck  somewhere  in  their  garments,  to  use  on  such  an 
occasion. 

"  Well,  I  must  tell  you  about  La  Belle  Melanie. 


OfLaBelleMelanie  39 

That  is  the  name  she  was  known  by  in  all  parts,  for 
she  was  beautiful  as  a  lily  flower,  and  no  lily  was  ever 
more  pure  and  sweet  than  she.  Melanie  lived  with  her 
mother,  who  was  aged  almost  to  helplessness,  and  she 
cared  for  her  with  all  the  tenderness  imaginable.  You 
may  believe  that  she  was  much  sought  after  by  the 
young  fellows  of  the  Cape  —  yes,  and  of  Port  I'Eveque 
as  well,  which  used  to  hold  its  head  in  the  air  in  those 
days;  but  her  mother  would  hear  nothing  of  her 
marrying. 

"  '  You  are  only  seventeen,'  she  said,  '  ma  Melanie. 
I  will  hear  nothing  of  your  marrying,  no,  not  for  five 
years  at  the  least.    By  that  time  we  shall  see.' 

"And  Melanie  tried  to  be  obedient  to  all  her 
mother's  commands,  difficult  as  they  often  were  for  a 
young  girl,  who  naturally  desires  a  little  to  amuse  her- 
self sometimes.  For  even  had  her  mother  forbidden 
her  to  speak  alone  to  the  young  men  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, so  fearful  was  she  lest  her  daughter  should  think 
of  marriage. 

"  Eh  bien,  and  so  that  was  how  things  went  for  quite 
a  while,  and  every  day  Melanie  grew  more  beautiful. 
And  one  Saturday  afternoon  in  November  she  had 
been  in  to  Port  I'Eveque  to  make  her  confession,  for 
she  was  a  pious  girl.  And  when  she  went  to  meet  her 
companions  in  order  to  return  to  Pig  Cove  with  them, 
they  said  they  were  not  going  back  that  night,  for  there 
was  to  be  a  dance  at  the  courthouse,  and  they  were 
going  to  spend  the  night  with  some  parents  by  tnarriage 
of  theirs.     Poor  Melanie!  she  would  have  been  glad 


40  Cape  Breton  Tales 

to  stay,  but  alas,  her  poor  mother,  aged  and  helpless, 
was  expecting  her,  and  she  dared  not  disappoint  the 
poor  soul. 

*'  So  finally  one  of  the  young  men  said  he  would  put 
her  across  the  harbor,  if  she  did  not  mind  traversing 
the  woods  alone;  and  she  said,  no,  why  should  she 
mind?  It  was  still  plain  daylight.  And  so  he  put  her 
across.  And  she  said  good-night  to  him  and  set  off 
along  the  solitary  road  to  the  Cape,  little  imagining 
what  an  adventure  was  ahead  of  her. 

"  For  scarcely  had  she  gone  so  much  as  a  mile  when 
it  had  grown  almost  night,  so  suddenly  at  that  time  of 
the  year  does  the  daylight  extinguish  itself.  The  sky 
had  grown  dark,  dark,  and  there  was  a  look  of  storm 
in  it.  La  Belle  Melanie  began  to  grow  uneasy  of  mind. 
And  she  thought  then  of  the  feu  follet,  and  put  her 
hand  to  her  bodice  to  assure  herself  of  her  needle. 
What  then !  Alas !  it  was  gone,  by  some  accident, 
whether  or  not  she  had  lost  it  on  the  road  or  in  the 
church. 

"  With  that  Melanie  began  to  feel  a  terror  creep 
over  her;  and  this  was  not  lessened,  as  you  may  well 
believe,  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  she  perceived  a 
floating  thing  like  a  luminous  cloud  in  a  marsh  some 
long  distance  from  the  road.  The  night  was  now  all 
black;  scarcely  could  she  perceive  the  road  ahead, 
always  winding  there  among  the  hills. 

"  She  had  the  idea  of  running;  but  alas,  her  legs 
were  like  lead;  she  could  not  make  them  march  in 
front  of  her.     She  saw  herself  already  dead.    The  feu 


Of  La  Belle  Melanie  41 

follet  was  beginning  to  move,  first  very  slowly  and  all 
uncertain,  but  then  drawing  itself  together  into  a  ball 
of  fire,  and  leaping  as  if  in  play  from  one  hummock  of 
moss  to  another,  just  as  a  cat  will  leave  a  poor  little 
mouse  half  dead  on  the  floor  while  it  amuses  itself  in 
another  way. 

''  What  the  end  would  have  been,  who  would  have 
the  courage  to  say,  if  just  at  this  moment,  all  ready  to 
fall  to  the  ground  for  terror,  poor  Melanie  had  not 
bethought  herself  of  her  rosary.  It  was  in  her  pocket. 
She  grasped  it.  She  crossed  herself.  She  saluted  the 
crucifix.  And  then  she  commenced  to  say  her  prayers ; 
and  with  that,  wonderful  to  say,  her  strength  came 
back  to  her,  and  she  began  to  run.  She  had  never  ran 
like  that  before  —  swift  as  a  horse,  not  feeling  her  legs 
under  her,  and  praying  with  high  voice  all  the  time. 

*'  But  for  all  that,  the  death  fire  followed,  always 
faster  and  faster,  now  creeping,  now  flying,  now  leap- 
ing from  rock  to  rock,  and  always  drawing  nearer,  and 
nearer,  with  a  strange  sound  of  a  hissing  not  of  this 
world.  Melanie  began  to  feel  her  forces  departing. 
She  was  almost  exhausted.  She  would  not  be  able  to 
run  much  more. 

*'And  suddenly,  just  ahead,  on  a  bare  height,  there 
was  the  tall  Calvaire,  and  a  new  hope  came  to  her.  If 
she  could  only  reach  it !  She  summoned  all  her  strength 
and  struggled  up.  She  climbs  the  ascent.  Alas, 
once  more  it  seems  she  will  fail !  There  is  a  fence,  as 
you  know,  built  of  white  pales,  about  the  cross.  She 
had  not  the  power  to  climb  it.    She  sinks  to  the  ground. 


42  Cape  Breton  Tales 

And  it  was  at  that  last  minute,  all  flat  on  the  ground  In 
fear  of  death,  that  an  Idea  came  to  her,  as  I  will 
tell  you. 

"  She  raises  herself  to  her  feet  by  clinging  to  the 
white  palings;  she  faces  the  feu  follet,  already  not 
more  than  ten  yards  away;  she  holds  out  the  rosary, 
making  the  holy  sign  in  the  air. 

"  '  I  did  not  make  a  full  confession  I  '  she  cries.  *  I 
omitted  one  thing.  My  mother  had  forbidden  me  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  a  young  man;  and  one  day 
when  I  was  looking  for  Fanchette,  our  cow,  who  had 
wandered  in  the  woods,  I  met  Andre  Bablnot,  and  he 
kissed  me.' 

"  That  was  what  saved  her.  The  feu  follet  rushed 
at  her  with  a  roar  of  defeat,  and  in  the  same  instant  it 
burst  apart  Into  a  thousand  flames  and  disappeared. 

"As  for  Melanle,  she  fell  to  the  ground  again,  and 
lay  there  for  a  while,  quite  unconscious.  At  last  the 
rain  came  on,  and  she  revived,  and  set  out  for  home, 
but  not  very  vigorously.  Ah,  mon  Dieu !  If  her  poor 
mother  was  glad  to  see  her  alive  again !  She  embraced 
her  most  tenderly,  and  with  encouraging  voice  Inquired 
what  had  happened,  for  Melanle  was  still  as  white  as 
milk,  and  there  was  a  strange  smell  of  fire  In  her  gar- 
ments, and  still  she  held  in  her  hands  the  little  rosary; 
and  so  finally  Melanle  told  her  everything,  not  even 
concealing  the  last  confession  about  Andre,  and  with 
that  her  mother  burst  Into  tears,  and  said: 

"  *  Melanle,'  she  said,  '  I  have  been  wrong,  me.  A 
young  girl  will  be  a  young  girl  despite  all  the  contrary 


Of  La  Belle  Melanie  43 

intentions  of  her  mother.  To  show  how  grateful  to 
God  I  am  that  you  are  returned  to  me  safe  and  sound, 
you  shall  marry  Andre  as  soon  as  you  like.' 

"  So  they  were  married  the  next  year.  And  there  is 
a  lesson  to  this  story,  too,  which  is  that  one  should 
always  tell  the  truth;  because  if  La  Belle  Melanie  had 
told  all  the  truth  at  the  beginning  she  would  not  have 
had  all  that  fright. 

"And  to  show  that  the  story  is  true,  there  were 
found  the  marks  of  flames  on  the  white  fence  of  the 
Calvaire  the  next  day;  and  as  often  as  they  painted  it 
over  with  whitewash,  still  the  darkness  of  the  scorched 
wood  would  show  through,  as  I  often  saw  for  myself; 
but  now  there  is  a  new  fence  there.    ..." 


LA  ROSE  WITNESSETH 

Of  How  Old  Simeon* s  Son  Came  Home  Again 

|N  the  old  cemetery  above  the  church  some 
'men  were  at  work  setting  up  a  rather  ornate 
monument  at  the  head  of  two  long-neglected 
and  overgrown  graves.  La  Rose  had  no- 
ticed what  was  going  on,  as  she  came  out  from  early 
mass,  and  had  informed  herself  about  it;  and  since 
then,  she  said,  all  through  the  day,  her  thoughts  had 
been  traveling  back  to  things  that  happened  many 
years  ago. 

"  Is  it  not  strange,'^  she  observed  musingly,  sitting 
about  dusk  with  Michel  on  the  doorsill  of  the  kitchen, 
while  Celeste  finished  the  putting-away  of  the  supper 
dishes  — "  i^  it  not  strange  how  things  go  in  this 
world?  So  often  they  turn  out  sorrowfully,  and  you 
cannot  understand  why  that  should  be  so.  Think  of 
that  poor  Leonie  Gilet,  who  was  taken  so  suddenly  in 
the  chest  last  winter  and  died  all  in  a  month,  and  she 
one  of  the  purest  and  sweetest  liHes  that  ever  existed, 
and  the  next  year  she  was  to  be  married  to  a  good  man 
that  loved  her  better  than  both  his  two  eyes.  Ah, 
mon  Dieu,  sometimes  I  think  the  sadness  comes  much 
more  often  than  the  joy  down  here.^' 

She  looked  out  broodingly,  and  with  eyes  that  did 
not  see  anything,  across  the  captain's  garden  and  the 
hayfield  below,  dipping  gently  to  the  margin  of  the 


Of  SimeorCs  Son  45 

harbor.  Michel  was  silent.  La  Rose's  fits  of  melan- 
choly Interested  him  even  when  he  only  dimly  sensed 
the  burden  of  them. 

"And  then/'  she  resumed,  after  a  moment,  "  some- 
times the  ending  to  things  Is  happy.  For  a  while  all 
looks  dark,  dark,  and  there  Is  grief,  perhaps,  and  some 
tears;  and  then,  just  at  the  worst  moment  —  tiens!  — 
there  Is  a  change,  and  the  happiness  comes  again,  very 
likely  even  greater  than  It  was  at  first.  It  Is  as  If  this 
good  God  up  there,  he  could  not  bear  any  longer  to  see 
it  so  heartbreaking,  and  so  he  must  take  things  Into  his 
own  hands  and  set  them  right.  And  so,  sometimes, 
when  I  find  myself  feeling  sad  about  things,  I  like  to 
remember  what  arrived  to  that  poor  Simeon  Leblanc, 
whose  son  is  just  having  them  place  a  fine  tombstone 
for  him  up  there  in  the  cimetlere;  for  if  ever  happi- 
ness came  to  any  man,  it  came  to  him,  and  that  after  a 
long  time  of  griefs.  Did  you  ever  hear  about  this  old 
Simeon  Leblanc?  " 

"  Never,  tante  La  Rose,"  answered  the  boy,  gravely. 
"  But  if  it  has  a  pleasant  ending,  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  about  it,  and  I  don't  mind  If  it  makes  me  cry  a  little 
in  the  middle." 

By  this,  Celeste,  the  stout  domestic,  had  finished  her 
kitchen  work,  and  throwing  an  apron  over  her  stocky 
head  and  shoulders,  she  clumped  out  into  the  yard. 

"  I  am  running  over  to  Alec  Samson's,"  she  ex- 
plained, *'  to  get  a  mackerel  for  breakfast,  if  he  caught 
any  to-day." 

The  gate  clicked  after  her,  and  there  was  a  silence. 


46  Cape  Breton  Tales 

At  last  La  Rose  began,  a  little  absently  and  as  If,  for 
the  moment  at  least,  unaware  of  her  auditor.    .    .    . 

"  This  Simeon  Leblanc,  he  lived  over  there  on  the 
other  side  of  the  harbor,  just  beyond  the  place  where 
the  road  turns  off  to  go  to  the  Cape.  My  poor  step- 
mother when  coming  in  to  Port  I'fiveque  to  sell  some 
eggs  or  berries  —  three  gallons,  say,  of  blueberries,  or 
perhaps  some  of  those  large  strawberries  from  Pig 
Cove  —  she  would  often  be  running  in  there  for  a  little 
rest  and  a  talk  with  his  wife,  Celie  —  who  always  was 
glad  to  see  any  one,  for  that  matter,  the  poor  soul,  for 
this  Simeon  was  not  too  gentle,  and  often  he  made  her 
unhappy  with  his  harsh  talk. 

"  ^Ah,  mon  amie,'  she  would  say  to  my  stepmother, 
at  the  same  time  wetting  her  eyes  with  tears  —  'Ah,  I 
have  such  a  fear,  me,  that  he  will  do  himself  a  harm, 
one  day,  with  the  temper  he  has.  He  frightens  me  to 
death  sometimes  —  especially  about  that  Tommy.* 

"  Now  you  must  understand  that  this  Tommy  was 
the  son  they  had,  and  in  some  ways  he  resembled  to 
his  father,  and  in  some  ways  to  his  mother.  For  it  is 
certain  he  had  a  pride  of  the  most  Incredible,  which  I 
daresay  made  him  a  little  hard  to  manage ;  and  yet  In 
his  heart  there  was  a  softness. 

"  '  That  Tommy,'  said  his  mother,  '  he  wants  to  be 
loved.  That  Is  the  way  to  get  him  to  do  anything. 
There  Is  no  use  In  always  punishing  him  and  treating 
him  hardly.' 

"  But  for  all  that,  old  Simeon  must  have  his  will, 
and  so  he  does  not  cease  to  be  scolding  the  boy.    He 


Of  Simeon's  Son  47 

commands  him  now  to  do  this  thing,  now  that  —  here, 
there.  He  forbids  him  to  be  from  home  at  night.  He 
tells  him  he  is  a  disgrace  of  a  son  to  be  so  little 
laborious.  Oh,  it  was  a  horror  the  way  that  poor  lamb 
of  a  Tommy  was  treated;  and  finally,  one  day,  when 
he  was  seventeen  or  eighteen,  there  was  a  great  quar- 
rel, and  that  Simeon  called  him  by  some  cruel  name, 
and  white  as  a  corpse  cries  out  Tommy : 

"  '  My  father,  that  is  not  true.  You  shall  not  say 
it !  '  —  and  the  other,  furious  as  an  animal :  *  I  shall  say 
what  I  choose !  '  And  he  says  the  same  thing  again. 
And  Tommy:  *After  that,  I  will  not  endure  to  stay 
here  another  day.  I  am  tired  of  being  treated  so. 
You  will  not  have  another  chance.' 

"And  with  that  he  places  a  kiss  on  the  forehead  of 
his  poor  mother,  who  was  letting  drop  some  tears,  and 
walks  out  of  the  house  without  so  much  as  turning  his 
head  again;  and  he  marches  over  to  Petit  Ingrat, 
where  there  was  an  American  fisherman  which  had 
put  in  for  some  bait,  and  he  says  to  the  captain :  *  Will 
you  give  me  a  place?  '  and  the  captain  says,  '  We  are 
just  needing  another  man.  Yes,  we  will  give  you  a 
place.*  So  this  Tommy,  he  got  aboard,  and  a  little 
later  they  put  out  and  went  off  to  the  Banks  for  the 
fish. 

"  Well,  it  was  not  very  long  before  that  Simeon  got 
over  his  bad  wicked  rage;  and  then  he  was  sorry 
enough  for  what  he  had  done,  especially  because  there 
was  no  longer  any  son  in  the  house,  and  that  poor 
Celie  must  always  be  grieving  herself  after  him.    And 


48  Cape  Breton  Tales 

you  may  believe  that  Simeon  got  little  pity  from  the 
neighbors. 

"  '  It  is  good  enough  for  him,'  they  would  say  —  '  a 
man  like  that,  who  is  not  decent  to  his  own  son.' 

"  But  they  were  sorry  for  Celie,  most  of  all  when 
she  began  to  grow  thinner  and  thinner  and  had  a 
strange  look  in  her  eyes  that  was  not  entirely  of  this 
world.  The  old  man  said,  '  She  will  be  all  right  again 
when  that  schooner  comes  back,'  and  he  was  always 
going  over  to  Petit  Ingrat  to  find  out  if  it  had  returned 
yet;  but  you  see,  of  course  there  would  not  be  any  need 
of  bait  when  the  season  was  finished,  and'  so  the 
schooner  did  not  put  in  at  all;  and  the  autumn  came, 
and  went  by,  and  then  followed  the  winter,  and  still  no 
news,  but  only  waiting  and  waiting,  and  a  little  before 
Easter  that  poor  Celie  went  away  among  the  angels.  I 
think  her  heart  was  quite  broken  in  two,  and  it  did  not 
seem  to  her  that  she  needed  to  stay  any  longer  in  this 
hustling  world.  And  so  they  buried  her  in  the  old 
cimetiere  —  I  saw  her  grave  to-day,  next  to  Simeon's, 
and  this  fine  new  monument  is  to  be  for  the  two  of 
them;  but  for  all  these  years  there  has  been  just  a 
wooden  cross  there,  like  the  other  graves. 

"  But  still  no  word  came  of  Tommy,  and  the  old 
Simeon  was  all  alone  in  the  house.  Oh,  I  can  remem- 
ber him  well,  well,  although  I  was  only  a  young  tiny 
girl  then  and  had  not  had  any  sorrow  myself.  We 
would  see  him  walking  along  the  Petit  Ingrat  road,  all 
bent  over  and  trailing  one  leg  a  little. 

"*Hst!'   one   of  my  companions  would  whisper, 


Of  Simeon^s  Son  49 

*  that  is  old  Simeon,  who  drove  his  son  from  home; 
and  his  poor  wife  is  dead  with  grief.  He  is  going 
across  there  to  see  if  a  schooner  will  have  come  in  yet 
with  any  news.' 

"And  that  was  true.  He  took  this  habitude  of  mak- 
ing a  promenade  almost  every  day  to  Petit  Ingrat  dur- 
ing that  season  of  the  year  when  the  Americans  are 
going  down  to  the  fish  —  la-bas  —  and  if  there  was  a 
schooner  in  the  harbor,  he  finds  the  captain  or  one  of 
the  crew,  and  he  says,  '  Is  it,  m'sieu,  for  example,  that 
you  have  seen  a  boy  anywhere  named  Tommy  Le- 
blanc?  It  is  my  son  —  you  understand?  —  a  very 
pretty  young  boy,  with  black  hair  and  fine  white  teeth 
and  a  little  curly  mustache  —  so  —  just  beginning  to 
sprout.'  And  he  would  go  on  to  describe  that  Tommy, 
but  of  course,  for  one  thing  they  could  not  understand 
his  French  very  well,  for  the  Americans,  as  you  know, 
do  not  speak  that  language  among  themselves;  and 
anyway,  you  may  depend  that  none  of  them  had  ever 
heard  of  Tommy  Leblanc;  and  sometimes  they  would 
have  a  little  mockery  of  the  old  man;  and  sometimes, 
on  the  contrary,  they  would  feel  pity,  and  would  say, 
well,  God's  name,  it  was  a  damage,  but  they  could  not 
tell  him  anything. 

"And  then  the  old  man  would  say,  *  Well,  if  ever  you 
should  see  him  anywhere,  will  you  please  tell  him  that 
his  father  is  wanting  him  to  come  home,  if  he  will  be 
so  kind  as  to  do  it;  because  it  is  very  lonesome  without 
him,  and  the  mother  is  dead.' 

"  Then  after  he  had  said  that,  he  would  go  back 


50  Cape  Breton  Tales 

again  along  the  road  to  the  Cape,  not  speaking  to  any- 
body unless  they  spoke  to  him  first,  and  trailing  one 
leg  after  him  a  little,  like  one  of  these  horses  you  see 
sometimes  with  a  weight  tied  to  a  hind  foot  so  that  it 
cannot  run  away  —  or  at  least  not  very  far.  That  is 
how  I  remember  old  Simeon  from  the  time  when  I  was 
a  little  girl  —  walking  there  along  the  road  to  or  from 
Petit  Ingrat.  I  used  to  hear  people  say:  *Ah,  my  God, 
how  old  he  Is  grown  all  in  these  few  years  1  He  is  not 
the  same  man  —  so  quiet  and  so  timid  '  —  and  others : 
*  But  can  one  say  how  it  is  possible  for  him  to  live  there 
all  alone  like  that?'  —  and  someone  replied:  *  You 
could  not  persuade  him  to  live  anywhere  else,  for  that 
is  where  he  has  all  his  memories,  both  the  good  and 
the  bad,  and  what  else  is  left  for  him  now  —  that,  and 
the  crazy  Idea  he  has  that  his  Tommy  will  one  day 
come  home  again?  ' 

"  You  see,  as  the  years  passed,  everybody  took  the 
belief  that  Tommy  must  be  dead,  at  sea  or  somewhere, 
seeing  that  not  one  word  was  heard  of  him;  but  of 
course  they  guarded  themselves  well  from  saying  any- 
thing like  that  to  poor  old  Simeon. 

''  Well,  it  was  about  the  time  when  your  poor  father, 
Atnedee,  was  a  boy  of  your  age,  or  a  little  older,  that 
all  this  sorrow  came  to  an  end;  and  this  is  the  pleas- 
ant part  of  the  story.  I  was  living  at  Madame 
Paon's  then,  down  near  the  post-office  wharf,  and  we 
had  the  habitude  of  looking  out  of  the  window  every 
day  when  the  packet-boat  came  in  (which  was  three 
times  a  week)  to  see  if  anybody  would  be  landing  at 


Oj  Simeon's  Son  51 

Port  I'fiveque.  Well,  and  one  afternoon  whom  should 
we  see  but  a  fine  m'sieu  with  black  beard,  carrying  a 
cane,  dressed  like  an  American ;  and  next,  a  lovely  lady 
in  clothes  of  the  most  fashionable  and  magnificent; 
and  then,  six  beautiful  young  children,  all  just  as  hand- 
some as  dolls,  and  holding  tightly  one  another  by  the 
hand,  with  an  affection  the  most  charming  in  the  world. 
Ah,  ma  foi,  if  I  shall  ever  forget  that  sight! 

"And  Madame  Paon  to  me :  '  Rose,  —  La  Rose,  — 
in  God's  name,  who  can  they  be !  Perhaps  some  mil- 
lionaires fro'm  Boston  —  for  look,  the  trunks  that  they 
have  I  ' 

"And  that  was  the  truth,  for  the  trunks  and  bags 
were  piled  all  over  the  wharf;  and  opening  the  window 
a  little,  we  hear  m'sieu  giving  directions  to  have  them 
taken  to  the  Couronne  d'Or  —  *  and  who,'  he  asks  in 
French,  'is  the  proprietor  there  now?'  —  and  they 
say :  '  Gaston  Lebal '  —  and  he  says :  '  What !  Gaston 
Lebal !    Is  it  possible !  ' 

"  '  He  knows  Port  I'fiveque,  it  seems,'  says  Madame 
Paon,  all  excitement;  and  just  then  the  first  two  trunks 
go  by  the  windows,  and  she  tells  me,  '  It  is  an  English 
name,  or  an  American.'  And  then,  spelling  out  the 
letters,  for  she  reads  with  a  marvel  of  ease,  she  says, 
*  W-H-I-T-E  is  what  the  trunks  say  on  them ;  but  I  can 
make  nothing  out  of  that.  I  am  going  outside,  me,' 
she  says,  *  and  perhaps  I  shall  learn  something.' 

"  She  descends  into  the  garden,  and  seems  to  be 
working  a  little  at  the  flowers,  and  a  minute  later,  here 
comes  the  fine  m'sieu,   and  he  looks  at  her  for  an 


52  Cape  Breton  Tales 

instant  —  right  in  the  face,  so,  and  as  if  asking  a  ques- 
tion —  and  then :  'Ah,  mon  Dieu,  it  is  Suzon  Boudrot ! 
he  cries,  using  the  name  she  was  bom  with.  *  Can  you 
not  remember  me?  —  That  Tommy  Leblanc  who  ran 
away  twenty  years  ago  ?  ' 

"  Madame  Paon  gives  a  scream  of  joy,  and  they 
embrace;  and  then  he  presents  this  Mees  W'ite,  qui  est 
une  belle  Americaine,  and  then  he  says :  *  What  is  there 
of  news  about  my  dear  mother  and  my  father?  '  —  and 
she :  *  Did  you  not  know  your  poor  mother  was  dead 
the  year  after  you  went !  '  —  and  he :  '  Ma  mere  —  she 
is  dead?  '  —  and  the  tears  jump  out  of  his  eyes,  and  his 
voice  trembles  as  if  it  had  a  crack  in  it.  *  Well,  she  is 
with  the  blessed  angels,  then,'  says  he. 

"  '  But  your  poor  old  father,'  goes  on  Madame 
Paon,  '  he  is  still  waiting  for  you  every  day.  He  has 
waited  all  these  twenty  years  for  you  to  come  back.' 

*'  *  He  is  still  in  the  old  place?  '  asks  he. 

"  '  Yes,  he  would  not  leave  it.' 

"  *  We  shall  go  over  there  at  once,'  he  says,  opening 
out  his  two  arms  —  so !  —  '  before  ever  we  set  foot  in 
another  house.    It  is  my  duty  as  a  son.' 

"  So  while  Andre  Gilet  —  the  father  of  that  dear 
Leonie  who  was  taken  in  the  chest  —  while  he  is  get- 
ting the  boat  ready  to  cross  the  harbor.  Tommy  tells 
her  how  he  has  been  up  there  in  Boston  all  these  years 
—  at  a  place  called  Shee-cahgo,  a  big  city  —  and  has 
been  making  money;  and  how  he  changed  his  name  to 
W'ite,  which  means  the  same  as  Leblanc  and  is  more  in 


Oj  Simeon^s  Son  53 

the  mode ;  and  how  he  'married  this  lovely  Americaine, 
whose  name  was  Finnegan,  and  had  all  these  sweet 
little  children;  but  always,  he  said,  he  had  desired  to 
make  a  little  visit  at  home,  only  it  was  so  far  to  come ; 
and  he  was  afraid  that  his  father  would  still  be  angry 
at  him. 

"  'Ah,'  says  Madame  Paon,  with  emotion,  *  you  will 
not  know  your  father.  He  is  so  different :  just  as  mild 
as  a  sheep.    Everyone  has  come  to  love  him.'    .    .    . 

"  Now  for  the  rest  of  the  story,  all  I  know  is  what 
that  Andre  told  us,  for  he  put  all  this  family  across 
to  the  other  side  in  his  boat.  So  when  they  reached 
the  shore,  M'sieu  Tommy,  he  says:  *  You  will  all  wait 
here  until  I  open  the  door  and  beckon:  and  then  you, 
Maggie,  will  come  up ;  and  then,  a  little  later,  we  will 
have  the  children  in,  all  together.' 

"And  with  that  he  leaves  them,  and  goes  up  to  the 
old  house,  and  knocks,  and  opens  the  door,  and  walks 
in  —  and  who  can  say  the  joy  and  the  comfort  of  the 
meeting  that  happened  then?  And  quite  a  long  while 
passed,  Andre  said;  and  that  lovely  lady  sat  there  on 
the  side  of  the  boat,  all  as  white  as  milk,  and  never 
saying  a  word;  and  those  six  lambs,  whispering  softly 
among  themselves  —  and  one  of  them  said,  just  a 
little  above  its  breath: 

"  *  It  will  be  nice  to  have  a  grandpa  all  for  ourselves, 
don't  you  think?'  —  and  was  not  that  a  dear  sweet 
little  thing  for  it  to  say?    .    .    . 

"And  finally  the  door  opens  again,  and  see  I  and  his 


54  Cape    Breton  Tales 

hand  makes  a  sign;  and  that  lady,  swift  as  one  of  these 
sea-gulls,  leaps  ashore.  And  up  the  hill ;  and  through 
the  gate;  and  into  the  house!  And  the  door  shuts 
again. 

"And  another  wait,  while  those  six  look  at  each 
other,  and  say  their  little  things.  And  at  last  they  are 
called  too,  and  away  they  go,  all  together,  just  like  one 
of  these  flocks  of  curlew  that  fly  over  the  Cape,  mak- 
ing those  soft  little  sounds;  and  then  into  the  house; 
and  Andre  said  he  had  to  wipe  two  tears  out  of  his 
eyes  to  see  a  thing  like  that. 

"  Well,  this  was  the  end  of  old  Simeon's  grief,  as 
you  may  well  believe.  Those  W'ites  stay  at  the  Cou- 
ronne  d'Or  for  as  much  as  nine  or  ten  days,  and  every 
morning  they  will  be  going  across  to  see  their  dear 
dear  grandfather;  and  finally  when  they  went  away, 
they  had  hired  that  widow  Bergere  to  keep  his  house 
comfortable  for  him;  and  M'sieu  Tommy  left  money 
for  all  needs. 

"And  every  Christmas  after  that,  so  long  as  old 
Simeon  existed,  there  would  come  boxes  of  presents 
from  that  place  in  Boston.  Oh,  I  assure  you,  he  did 
not  lack  that  good  care.  And  always  he  must  be  talk- 
ing about  that  Tommy  of  his,  who  was  so  rich,  and 
was  some  great  personage  in  the  city  —  what  they 
called  an  alderman  —  and  yet  he  had  not  forgotten  his 
poor  old  father,  who  had  waited  all  those  years  to  sec 
him. 

"  So  this  story  shows  that  sometimes  things  turn  out 


Of  Simeon's  Son  5S 

just  as  well  In  this  life  down  here  as  they  do  in  those 
silly  stories  they  tell  you  about  princesses  and  all  those 
things  that  are  not  so;  and  that  is  a  comfort  some- 
times, when  you  see  so  much  that  is  sad  and  heart- 
breaking in  this  world.    ..." 


Om-P^ 


;a/calvaire 


AT  A  BRETON  CALVAIRE 


AT  A  BRETON  CALVAIRE 

Upon  that  cape  that  thrusts  so  bare 
Its  crest  above  the  wasting  sea  — 
Grey  rocks  amidst  eternity  — 

There  stands  an  old  and  frail  calvaire, 
Upraising  like  an  unvoiced  cry 
Its  great  black  arms  against  the  sky. 

For  storm-beat  years  that  cross  has  stood: 

It  slants  before  the  winter  gale; 

And  now  the  Christ  is  marred  and  pale ; 
The  rain  has  washed  away  the  blood 

That  ran  once  on  its  brow  and  side, 

And  in  its  feet  the  seams  are  wide. 

But  when  the  boats  put  out  to  sea 
At  earliest  dawn  before  the  day, 
The  fishermen,  they  turn  and  pray, 

Their  eyes  upon  the  calvary: 
"  O  Jesu,  Son  of  Mary  fair. 
Our  little  boats  are  in  thy  care !  " 

And  when  the  storm  beats  hard  and  shrill 
Then  toil-bent  women,  worn  with  fear. 
Pray  for  the  lives  they  hold  so  dear. 

And  seek  the  cross  upon  the  hill : 
"  O  Jesu,  Son  of  Mary  mild. 
Be  with  them  where  the  waves  are  wild !  " 


60  Cape  Breton  Tales 

And  when  the  dead  they  carry  by 

Across  that  melancholy  land,  — 

Dead  that  were  cast  up  on  the  strand 
Beneath  a  black  and  whirling  sky,  — 

They  pause  before  the  old  calvaire ; 

They  cross  themselves  and  say  a  prayer. 

O  Jesu,  Son  of  Mary  fair! 

O  Faith,  that  seeks  thy  cross  of  pain ! 

Their  voices  break  above  the  rain, 
The  wind  blows  hard,  the  heart  lies  bare : 

Clutching  through  dark,  their  hands  find  Thee, 

O  Christ,  that  died  on  Calvary! 


THE  PRIVILEGE 


THE  PRIVILEGE 

O-DAY  I  can  think  about  only  one  thing.  It 
Is  in  vain  I  have  tried  to  busy  myself  with 
my  sermon  for  next  Sunday.  Last  week,  for 
another  reason,  I  had  recourse  to  an  old  ser- 
mon ;  but  I  dislike  to  make  a  practice  of  so  doing,  even 
though  I  strongly  suspect  that  none  of  our  little  Salmon 
River  congregation  would  know  the  difference.  We 
are  a  very  simple  people,  In  this  out-of-the-way  Cape 
Breton  parish,  called  mostly  to  be  fishers,  like  Our 
Lord's  apostles,  and  recking  not  a  whit  of  the  finer 
points  of  doctrine.  Nevertheless,  it  Is  an  hireling 
shepherd  who  is  faithless  only  because  the  flock  do  not 
ask  to  be  fed  with  the  appointed  manna;  and  I  shall 
broach  the  sermon  again,  once  I  have  set  down  the 
thing  that  is  so  heavy  on  my  heart. 

For  all  I  can  think  of  just  now  is  that  Renny  and 
Suse,  out  there  on  Halibut  Head,  four  miles  away,  are 
alone ;  alone  for  the  first  time  In  well-nigh  thirty  years. 
The  last  of  the  brood  has  taken  wing. 

Yet  It  came  to  me  this  morning,  as  I  watched  Renny 
on  the  wharf  saying  good-by  to  the  boy,  and  bidding 
him  wrap  the  tippet  snug  about  his  neck  In  case  the 
wind  would  be  raw  —  It  came  to  me  that  there  is  a 
triumph  about  the  nest  when  It  is  empty  that  It  could 
never  have  earlier.  I  saw  the  look  of  It  in  Renny's 
face  —  not  defeat,  but  exultation. 


64  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Renny?"  I 
asked  him,  as  the  steamer  slipped  out  of  sight  behind 
the  lighthouse  rock. 

He  stared  at  me  a  little  contemptuously,  a  manner 
he  has  always  had. 

**  Do,  Mr.  Biddies?  "  says  he,  with  a  queer  laugh. 
"  Why,  what  would  I  do,  sor?  They  ain't  no  less  fish 
to  be  catched,  is  they,  off  Halibut  Head,  just  because  I 
got  quit  of  a  son  or  two?  " 

He  left  me,  with  a  toss  of  his  crisp,  tawny-gray  curls, 
jumped  into  his  little  two-wheeled  cart,  and  was  off. 
And  I  thought,  "Ah,  Renny  Marks,  outside  you  are 
still  the  same  wild  beast  as  when  I  had  my  first  meet- 
ing with  you,  two-and-thirty  years  ago ;  but  inside  — 
yes,  I  knew  then  it  must  come ;  and  it  was  not  for  me  to 
order  the  how  of  it.'' 

So  as  I  took  my  way  homeward,  alone,  toward  the 
Rectory,  I  found  myself  recalling,  as  if  it  were  yester- 
day, the  first  words  I  had  ever  exchanged  with  that 
tawny  giant,  just  then  in  his  first  flush  of  manhood, 
and  with  a  face  as  ruddy  and  healthy-looking  as  one  of 
these  early  New  Rose  potatoes.  Often,  to  be  sure,  I 
had  seen  him  already  in  church,  of  a  Sunday,  sitting 
defiant  and  uncomfortable  on  one  of  the  rear  benches, 
struggling  vainly  to  keep  his  eyes  open;  but  before  the 
last  Amen  was  fairly  out  of  the  people's  mouth,  he  had 
always  bolted  for  the  door;  and  I  had  never  come,  as 
you  may  say,  face  to  face  with  him  until  this  after- 
noon when  I  was  footing  it  back,  by  the  cove  road, 
from  a  visit  to  an  old  sick  woman,  Nannie  Odell.    And 


The  Privilege  65 

here  comes  Renny  Marks  on  his  way  hoTne  from  the 
boat;  and  over  his  shoulder  was  the  mainsail  and  gaff 
and  a  mackerel-seine  and  two  great  oars;  and  by  one 
arm  he  had  slung  the  rudder  and  tackle  and  bait-pot; 
and  under  the  other  he  lugged  a  couple  of  bundles  of 
lath  for  to  mend  his  traps ;  and  so  he  was  pacing  along 
there  as  proud  and  careless  as  Samson  bearing  away 
the  gates  of  Gaza  on  his  back  {Judges  xvi,  3). 

Now  I  had  entertained  the  belief  for  some  time  that 
it  was  my  duty,  should  the  occasion  offer,  to  have  a 
serious  word  with  Renny  about  matters  not  temporal; 
and  this  was  clearly  the  moment.  Yet  even  before  we 
had  met  he  gave  me  one  of  those  proud,  distrustful,  I 
have  said  contemptuous,  looks  of  his;  and  I  seemed 
suddenly  to  perceive  the  figure  I  must  cut  in  his  eyes, 
pattering  along  there  so  trimly  in  my  clerical  garb,  and 
with  my  book  of  prayers  under  one  arm;  and,  do  you 
know,  I  was  right  tongue-tied;  and  so  we  came  within 
hand-reach,  and  still  never  a  word. 

At  last,  "  Good-day  to  ye.  Mister  Biddies,"  says  he, 
with  a  scant,  off-hand  nod;  and,  as  if  he  knew  I  must 
be  admiring  of  his  strength,  "  I  can  fetch  twice  this 
load,  sor,"  says  he,  "  without  so  mucht  as  knowing  the 
difference." 

"  It's  a  fine  thing,  Renny  Marks,"  said  I,  gaining  my 
tongue  again,  at  his  boast,  "  a  fine  thing  to  be  the 
strongest  man  in  three  parishes,  if  that's  what  ye  be,  as 
they  tell  me." 

"  It  is  that,  sor,"  says  he.  "  I  never  been  cast  yet; 
and  I  don't  never  expect  for  to  be." 


66  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"  But  It's  still  finer  a  thing,  Renny,''  I  went  on,  "  to 
use  that  strength  in  the  honor  of  your  Maker.  Tell 
me,  do  you  remember  to  say  your  prayers  every  night 
before  you  go  to  bed?  " 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  horse-laugh  the  young  fel- 
low had  at  those  words. 

"  Why,  sor,"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  I  had  suggested  the 
most  unconscionable  thing  in  the  world,  ''  saying  pray- 
ers! that's  for  the  likes  of  them  as  wash  their  face 
every  day.  I  say  my  prayers  on  Sunday;  and  that's 
enough  for  the  likes  of  me !  " 

And  with  that,  not  even  affording  me  a  chance  to 
reply,  he  strode  off  up  the  beach  road;  and  In  every 
movement  of  his  great  limbs  I  seemed  to  see  the  pride 
and  glory  of  life.  Doubtless  I  was  to  blame  for  not 
pressing  home  to  him  more  urgently  at  that  moment 
the  claims  of  religion;  but  as  I  stood  there,  watching 
him.  It  came  to  me  that  after  all  he  was  almost  to  be 
pardoned  for  being  proud.  For  surely  there  Is  some- 
thing to  warm  the  heart  in  the  sight  of  the  young  lion's 
strength  and  courage ;  and  even  the  Creator,  I  thought, 
must  have  taken  delight  in  turning  out  such  a  fine  piece 
of  mortal  handiwork  as  that  Renny  Marks. 

But  with  that  thought  immediately  came  another: 
"  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth,  and  scourgeth 
every  son  whom  he  receiveth  "  {Hebrews  xll,  6).  And 
I  went  home  sadly,  for  I  seemed  to  see  that  Renny  had 
bitter  things  ahead  of  him  before  he  should  learn  the 
great  lesson  of  life. 

Well,  and  this  Is  the  way  It  came  to  him.    At  the  age 


The  Privilege  67 

of  four-and-twenty,  he  married  this  Suse  Barlow  from 
down  the  coast  a  piece,  —  Green  Harbor  was  the  name 
of  the  town,  —  and  she  was  a  sweet  young  thing,  gentle 
and  ladylike,  though  of  plainest  country  stock,  and 
with  enough  education  so  they'd  let  her  keep  school 
down  there.  He  built  a  little  house  for  her,  the  one 
they  still  live  in,  with  his  own  hands,  at  Halibut  Head; 
and  I  never  saw  anything  prettier  than  the  way  that 
young  giant  treated  his  wife  —  like  a  princess  I  It  was 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  I  dare  say,  he  had  ever  given 
a  thought  to  anything  but  himself;  and  in  a  fashion,  I 
suppose,  'twas  still  but  a  satisfaction  of  his  pride,  to 
have  her  so  beautiful,  and  so  well-dressed. 

I  remember  of  how  often  they  would  come  in  late  to 
church,  —  even  as  late  as  the  Te  Deum,  —  and  I  could 
almost  suspect  him  of  being  behindhand  of  purpose, 
for  of  course  every  one  would  look  around  when  he 
came  creaking  down  the  aisle  in  his  big  shoes,  with  a 
wide  smile  on  his  ruddy  face  that  showed  all  his  white 
teeth  through  his  beard;  and  none  could  fail  to  observe 
how  fresh  and  pretty  Suse  was,  tripping  along  there 
behind  him,  and  looking  very  demure  and  modest  in 
her  print  frock,  and  oh,  so  very,  very  sorry  to  be  late ! 
And  during  the  prayers  I  had  to  remark  how  his  face 
would  always  be  turned  straight  toward  her,  as  if  it 
were  to  her  he  was  addressing  his  supplications;  the 
young  heathen ! 

Now  there  is  one  thing  I  never  could  seem  to  under- 
stand, though  I  have  often  turned  it  over  in  my  mind, 
and  that  is,  why  it  should  be  that  a  young  Samson  like 


68  Cape  Breton  Tales 

Renny  Marks,  and  a  fine,  bouncing  girl  like  that  Suse 
of  his,  should  have  children  who  were  too  weak  and 
frail  to  stay  long  on  this  earth;  but  such  was  the  case. 
They  saved  only  three  out  of  six;  and  the  oldest  of 
those  three,  Michael  John,  when  he  got  to  be  thirteen 
years  of  age,  shipped  as  cabin  boy  on  a  fisherman  down 
to  the  Grand  Banks,  and  never  came  back.  So  that 
left  only  Bessie  Lou,  who  was  twelve,  and  little  Mar- 
tin, who  was  the  baby. 

If  ever  children  had  a  good  bringing  up,  it  was  those 
two.  I  never  saw  either  of  them  in  a  dirty  frock  or  In 
bare  feet;  and  that  means  something,  you  must  allow, 
when  you  consider  the  hardness  of  the  fisherman's  life, 
and  how  often  he  has  nothing  at  all  to  show  for  a  sea- 
son's toil  except  debts  I  But  work  —  I  never  saw  any 
one  work  like  that  Renny;  and  he  made  a  lovely  little 
farm  out  there;  and  Suse  wasn't  ashamed  to  raise 
chickens  and  sell  them  in  Salmon  River;  and  she  dyed 
wool,  and  used  to  hook  these  rugs,  with  patterns  of  her 
own  design,  baskets  of  flowers,  or  handsome  fruit- 
dishes;  and  almost  always  she  could  get  a  price  for 
them.  But,  as  you  may  believe,  she  couldn't  keep  her 
sweet  looks  with  work  like  that.  Before  she  was 
thirty  she  began  to  look  old,  as  is  so  often  true  In  a 
hard  country  like  ours;  and  not  often  would  she  be 
coming  in  to  church  any  more,  because,  she  said,  of  the 
household  duties ;  but  my  own  belief  is  that  she  did  not 
have  anything  to  wear.  But  Bessie  Lou  and  little 
Martin,  when  the  boy  was  well  enough,  were  there 
every  fine  Sunday,  as  pretty  as  pictures,  and  able  to 


The  Privilege  69 

recite  the  Creed,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Col- 
lects, and  the  Commandments,  quite  like  the  children 
of  gentlefolk. 

Well,  when  Bessie  Lou  got  to  be  sixteen,  she  took  it 
into  her  head  that  she  must  go  off  to  Boston,  where  she 
would  be  earning  her  own  living,  and  see  something 
more  of  the  world  than  is  possible  for  a  girl  in  Salmon 
River.  Our  girls  all  get  that  notion  nowadays;  they 
are  not  content  to  stay  at  home  as  girls  used  to  do ;  but 
off  they  go  in  droves  to  the  States,  where  wages  are 
big,  and  there  is  excitement  and  variety.  So  the  old 
people  finally  said  yes,  and  off  goes  Bessie  Lou,  like  the 
others;  and  in  two  years  we  heard  she  was  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  mechanic  in  Lynn  (I  think  that  is  the  name  of 
the  city)  somewhere  outside  of  Boston.  She  has  been 
gone  eight  years  now,  and  has  three  children ;  and  she 
writes  occasionally.  She  is  always  wishing  she  could 
come  down  and  visit  the  old  folks ;  but  it  is  hard  to  get 
away,  I  presume,  and  they  are  plain  working  people. 

So  after  Bessie  Lou's  going,  all  they  had  left  at 
home  was  Martin,  who  was  always  ailing  more  or  less. 
And  on  my  word,  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  care 
they  gave  that  boy.  There  wasn't  anything  too  good 
for  him.  All  these  most  expensive  tonics  and  patent 
medicines  they  would  be  for  trying,  one  after  another, 
and  telling  themselves  every  time  that  at  last  they  had 
found  just  the  right  thing,  because  he'd  seem  to  be 
bracing  up  a  bit,  and  getting  more  active.  And  then 
he  would  take  another  of  his  bad  spells,  and  lose 
ground  again;  and  they  would  put  by  that  bottle  and 


70  Cape  Breton  Tales 

try  something  else.  One  day  when  I  was  out  there  his 
ma  showed  me  all  of  twenty  bottles  of  patent  medicine, 
some  of  them  scarcely  touched,  that  Renny  had  got  for 
him,  one  time  or  another. 

You  see,  Martin  couldn't  run  about  outdoors  very 
much  because  of  his  asthma;  and  then,  his  eyes  being 
bad,  that  made  him  unhappy  in  the  house,  for  he 
couldn't  be  reading  or  studying.  His  father  got  him 
an  old  fiddle  once,  he'd  picked  up  at  an  auction,  and 
the  boy  took  to  it  something  wonderful;  but  not  having 
any  teacher  and  no  music  he  soon  grew  tired  of  it.  And 
whenever  old  Renny  would  be  in  the  village,  he  must 
always  be  getting  some  little  thing  to  take  out  to  Mar- 
tin: a  couple  of  bananas,  say,  or  a  jack-knife,  or  one  of 
those  American  magazines  with  nice  pictures,  especially 
pictures  of  ships  and  other  sailing  craft,  of  which  the 
lad  was  very  fond. 

Well,  and  so  last  winter  came,  which  was  a  very  bad 
winter  indeed,  in  these  parts;  and  the  poor  lamb  had  a 
pitiful  hard  time;  and  whenever  Renny  got  in  to 
church,  it  was  plain  to  see  that  he  was  eating  his  heart 
out  with  worry.  He  still  had  his  old  way  of  always 
snoring  during  the  sermon;  but  oh,  if  you  could  see 
once  the  tired,  anxious,  supplicating  look  in  his  face, 
as  soon  as  his  proud  eyes  shut,  you  never  would  have 
had  the  heart  to  wish  anything  but  "  Sleep  on  now,  and 
take  your  rest"  {Mark  xiv,  41),  for  you  knew  that 
perhaps,  for  a  few  minutes,  he  had  stopped  worrying 
about  that  little  lad  of  his. 

Spring  came  on,  at  last,  and  Martin  was  out  again 


The  Privilege  71 

for  a  while  every  day  in  the  sun;  and  sometimes 
the  old  man  would  be  taking  him  abroad  for  a  drive 
or  for  a  little  sail  in  the  boat,  when  he  was  going  out 
to  his  traps;  and  it  appeared  that  the  strain  was  over 
again  for  the  time  being.  That  is  why  I  was  greatly 
surprised  and  troubled  one  day,  about  two  months  ago, 
to  see  Renny  come  driving  up  toward  the  Rectory  like 
mad,  all  alone  in  his  cart. 

I  had  just  been  doing  a  turn  of  work  myself  at  the 
hay;  for  it  is  hard  to  get  help  with  us  when  you  need  it 
most;  and  as  I  came  from  the  barn,  in  my  shirt-sleeves, 
Renny  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

'*  Something  has  happened  to  the  boy,*'  was  my 
thought;  and  I  was  all  but  certain  of  it  when  I  saw  the 
man's  face,  sharp  set  as  a  flint  stone,  and  all  the  blood 
gone  from  his  ruddy  skin  so  that  it  looked  right  blue. 
He  jumped  out  before  the  mare  stopped,  and  came  up 
to  me. 

"  Can  I  have  a  word  with  ye?  "  said  he;  and  when 
he  saw  my  look  of  question,  he  added,  "  It  ain't  noth- 
ink,  sor.    He's  all  right." 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  led  him  into  my 
study,  and  we  sat  down  there,  just  as  we  were,  I  in  my 
shirt-sleeves,  and  still  unwashed  after  the  hayfield. 

"  What  is  it,  Renny,  man?  "  says  I. 

It  seemed  like  he  could  not  make  his  lips  open  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  suddenly,  he  began  talking  very  fast 
and  excitedly,  pecking  little  dents  in  the  arms  of  the 
chair  with  his  big  black  fingernails. 

"  That  Bessie  Lou  of  oors  up  to  Boston,"  said  he,  as 


72  Cape  Breton  Tales 

if  he  were  accusing  some  one  of  an  outrage,  "  we  got  a 
letter  from  'er  last  night,  we  did,  and  she  sayse,  says 
she,  why  wouldn't  we  be  for  a-sending  o'  the  leetle  lad 
up  theyr?  They'd  gladly  look  oot  for  him,  she  sayse; 
and  the  winter  ain't  severe,  she  sayse;  and  he  could  go 
to  one  o'  the'm  fine  city  eye-doctors  and  'ave  his  eyes 
put  right  with  glasses  or  somethink;  and  prob'ly  he 
could  be  for  going  to  school  again  and  a-getting  of  his 
learning,  which  he's  sadly  be'indhand  in,  sor,  becaust 
he's  ben  ailing  so  much." 

His  eyes  flashed,  and  the  sweat  poured  down  his 
forehead  in  streams. 

I  don't  know  why  I  was  so  slow  to  understand;  but 
I  read  his  look  wrong,  there  seemed  so  much  of  the  old 
insolence  and  pride  in  it,  and  I  replied,  I  daresay  a 
little  reproachfully,  — 

"  Well,  and  why  wouldn't  that  be  an  excellent  thing, 
Renny?    I  should  think  you  would  feel  grateful." 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  second,  as  if  I  had  struck  him. 
Ah,  we  can  forget  the  words  people  say  to  us,  even  in 
wrath;  but  can  we  ever  free  ourselves  from  the  mem- 
ory of  such  a  look?  Without  knowing  why,  I  had  the 
feeling  of  being  a  traitor.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
there  he  had  crumpled  down  in  his  chair,  and  put  his 
head  in  his  big  hands,  and  was  sobbing. 

"I  cain't  —  I  cain't  let  him  go,"  he  groaned.  "I 
woon't  let  him  go.    He's  all  what  we  got  left." 

I  sat  there  for  a  time,  helpless,  looking  at  him.  You 
might  think  that  a  priest,  with  the  daily  acquaintance 
he  has  with  the  bitter  things  of  life,  ought  to  know  how 


The  Privilege  73 

to  face  them  calmly;  but  so  far  as  my  own  small  expe- 
rience goes,  I  seem  to  know  nothing  more  about  all 
that  than  at  the  beginning.  It  always  hurts  just  as 
much;  it's  always  just  as  bewildering,  just  as  terrible, 
as  if  you  had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before.  And 
when  I  saw  that  giant  of  a  Renny  Marks  just  broken 
over  there  like  some  big  tree  shattered  by  lightning,  it 
seemed  as  if  I  could  not  bear  to  face  such  suffering. 
Then  I  remembered  that  he  had  been  committed  into 
my  care  by  God,  and  that  I  must  not  be  only  an  hire- 
ling shepherd.    So  I  said:  — 

"  Renny,  lad,  it  isn't  for  ourselves  we  must  be  think- 
ing.   It's  for  him." 

He  lifted  up  his  head,  with  the  shaggy,  half-gray 
hair  all  rumpled  on  his  wet  forehead,  and  pulled  his 
sleeve  across  his  eyes. 

"  Hark'e,  Mister  Biddies,"  he  commanded  harshly. 
*'Ain't  we  did  the  best  we  could  for  him?  Who  dares 
say  we  ain't  did  the  best  we  could  for  him?     You?  ** 

I  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  minute  we  faced  each 
other,  while  he  shook  his  clenched  fists  at  me,  and  the 
creature  in  him  that  had  never  yet  been  cast  challenged 
all  the  universe. 

"  They're  tryin'  to  tak  my  boy  away  from  'me,"  he 
roared,  ''  and  they  cain't  do  it  —  I  tell  you  they  cain't. 
He's  all  what  we  got  left,  now." 

"And  so  you  mean  to  keep  him  for  yourself?  "  I 
asked. 

"Ay,  that  I  do,"  he  cried,  jumping  out  of  his  chair, 
and  striding  up  and  down  the  room  as  if  clean  out  of 


74  Cape  Breton  Tales 

his  wits.    "  I  'do !  I  do !  Why  wouldn^t  I  "mean  to,  hey? 
Ain't  he  mine?    Who's  got  a  better  right  to  him?  " 

Of  a  sudden  he  comes  to  a  dead  halt  in  front  of  me, 
with  his  arms  crossed.  "  Mister  Biddies,"  he  says, 
very  bitterly,  "  you  may  well  be  thankfu'  you  never 
wast  a  father  yoursel'.  Nobody  ain't  for  trying  to  tak 
nothink  away  from  you." 

"  That's  quite  true,  Renny,"  said  I.  *'  But  remem- 
ber," I  said,  not  intending  any  irreverence,  but  uttering 
such  poor  words  as  were  given  to  me  in  my  extremity, 
"  remember,  Renny,  it's  to  a  Father  you  say  your  pray- 
ers in  church  every  Sunday;  and  you  needn't  think  as 
that  Father  doesn't  know  full  as  well  as  you  what  it  is 
to  give  up  an  only  Son  for  love's  sake." 

"Hey?  —  What's  that,  sor?"  cries  Renny,  with  a 
face  right  like  a  dead  thing. 

"And  would  He  be  asking  of  you  for  to  let  yours  go, 
if  He  didn't  know  there  was  love  enough  in  your  heart 
to  stand  the  test?  " 

Renny  broke  out  with  a  terrible  groan,  like  the  roar 
of  anguish  of  a  wild  beast  that  has  got  a  mortal 
wound;  and  the  same  instant  the  savage  look  died  in 
his  eyes,  and  the  bigger  love  in  him  had  triumphed 
over  the  smaller  love.  I  could  see  it,  I  knew  it,  even 
before  he  spoke.  He  caught  at  my  hand,  blunderingly, 
and  gave  it  a  twist  like  a  winch. 

"  He  shall  go,  sor.  He  shall  go  for  all  of  I.  And 
Mr.  Biddies,  while  I'm  for  telling  the  old  woman  and 
the  boy,  would  ye  be  so  condescending  as  to  say  over 
some  of  them  there  prayers,  so  I  could  have  the  feel- 


The  Privilege  75 

ing,  as  you  might  say,  that  some  one  was  keeping  an 
eye  on  me?    It'll  all  be  done  in  less  nor  a  half-hour." 

And  with  that,  off  he  goes,  and  jumps  into  his  cart, 
and  whips  up  the  mare,  tearing  down  the  road  like  a 
whirlwind,  just  as  he  had  come,  without  so  much  as 
saying  good-by.  And  the  next  day  I  heard  them  saying 
in  the  village  that  Renny  Marks's  boy  was  to  go  up  to 
the  States  to  be  raised  with  his  sister's  family. 

Ah,  well,  that's  only  a  common  sort  of  a  story,  I 
know.  The  same  kind  of  things  happen  near  us  every 
day.  I  can't  even  quite  tell  why  I  wanted  to  set  it  down 
on  paper  like  this,  only  that,  some  way,  it  makes  me 
believe  in  God  more;  even  when  I  have  to  remember, 
and  it  seems  to  me  just  now  like  I  could  never  stop 
remembering  it,  that  Renny  and  Suse  are  all  alone  to- 
day out  there  on  Halibut  Head.  Renny  is  at  the  fish, 
of  course ;  and  Suse,  I  daresay,  is  working  in  her  little 
potato  patch;  and  Martin  is  out  there  on  the  sea,  being 
borne  to  a  world  far  away,  and  from  which,  I  suppose, 
he  will  not  be  very  anxious  to  return ;  for  few  of  them 
do  come  back,  nowadays,  to  the  hotne  country. 


V 


THEIR  TRUE  LOVE 


THEIR  TRUE  LOVE 

|VEN  Zabette,  with  her  thousand  wrinkles, 
^  was  young  once.  They  say  her  lips  were 
red  as  wild  strawberries  and  her  hair  as 
sleek  as  the  wing  of  a  blackbird  in  spring. 
All  the  old  people  of  St.  Esprit  remember  how  she 
used  to  swing  along  the  street  on  her  way  to  mass  of  a 
Sunday,  straight,  proud,  agile  as  a  goat,  with  her  dark 
head  flung  back,  and  a  disdainful  smile  on  her  lips  that 
kept  young  men  from  being  unduly  forward.  The 
country  people,  who  must  have  their  own  name  for 
everything  and  everybody,  used  to  call  her  "  la  belle 
orgueilleuse,"  and  sometimes,  "  the  highstepper  ";  and 
though  they  had  to  laugh  at  her  a  little  for  her  lofty 
ways,  they  found  it  quite  natural  to  address  her  as 
mademoiselle. 

But  all  these  things  one  only  knows  by  hearsay.  Za- 
bette does  not  talk  much  herself.  So  far  as  she  is  con- 
cerned, you  might  never  guess  that  she  had  a  story  at 
all.  She  lives  there  in  the  little  dormer-windowed  cot- 
tage beyond  the  post-office  with  Suzanne  Benoit.  For 
thirty-three  years  now  the  two  women  have  lived  to- 
gether; and  it  is  the  earnest  prayer  of  both  of  them 
that  when  the  time  for  going  arrives,  they  may  go 
together. 

These  two  good  souls  have  the  reputation,  all  over 
the  country,  of  immense  industry  and  thrift.     Suzanne 


80  Cape  Breton  Tales 

keeps  three  cows,  and  her  butter  is  famous.  Zabette 
—  she  was  a  Fuseau,  from  the  Grande  Anse  —  takes 
in  washing  of  the  better  class.  Nobody  in  St.  Esprit  can 
do  one  of  those  stiff  white  linen  collars  so  well  as  she. 
Positively,  it  shines  in  the  sun  like  a  looking-glass.  If 
you  notice  the  men  going  to  church,  you  can  always 
pick  out  those  who  have  their  shirts  and  collars  done 
by  Zabette  Fuseau.  By  comparison,  the  others  appear 
dull  and  very  commonplace. 

*'  But  why  must  Zabette  do  collars  for  her  living?  " 
you  are  asking.  "  Why  has  she  not  a  man  of  her  own 
to  look  out  for  her,  and  half  a  dozen  grown  up  chil- 
dren? Did  she  never  marry,  then  —  this  belle  or- 
gueilleuse?  " 

No.  Never.  But  not  on  account  of  that  pride  of 
hers;  at  least  not  directly.  If  you  go  into  the  pretty 
little  living-room  of  the  second  cottage  beyond  the 
post-office  —  the  one  with  such  a  show  of  geraniums  in 
the  front  windows  —  you  will  guess  half  the  secret,  for 
just  above  the  mantelpiece,  between  two  vases  of  arti- 
ficial asters,  hangs  the  daguerreotype  portrait  of  a 
young  man  in  mariner's  slops.  The  lineaments  have 
so  faded  with  the  years  that  it  is  difficult  to  make  them 
out  with  any  assurance.  It  is  as  if  the  portrait  itself 
were  seeking  to  escape  from  life,  retreating  little  by 
little,  imperceptibly,  into  the  dull  shadows  of  the 
ground,  so  that  only  as  you  look  at  it  from  a  certain 
angle  can  you  still  clearly  distinguish  the  small  dark 
eyes,  the  full  moustache,  the  round  chin,  the  square 
stocky  shoulders  of  the  subject.     Only  the  two  rosy 


Their  True  Love  81 

spots  added  by  the  daguerreotypist  to  the  cheeks  defy 
time  and  change,  Indestructible  token  of  youth  and 
ardor. 

A  little  frame  of  Immortelles  encloses  the  portrait. 
And  directly  In  front  of  It,  on  the  mantelpiece,  stands 
a  pretty  shell  box,  with  the  three  words  on  the  mother- 
of-pearl  lid:  ''A  ma  cherle."  What  is  In  the  box  —  If 
anything  —  no  one  can  tell  you  for  a  certainty,  though 
there  are  plenty  of  theories.  "  Love  letters,"  say 
some;  and  others,  with  a  pitying  laugh,  "  Old  maid's 
tears." 

Zabette  and  Suzanne  hold  their  tongues.  I  think  I 
know  what  the  treasure  of  the  box  is;  for  I  had  the 
story  directly  from  a  very  aged  woman  who  knew  both 
the  ''  girls  "  when  they  were  young;  and  she  vouched 
for  the  truth  of  it  by  all  the  beads  of  her  rosary.  This 
is  how  it  went. 

Zabette  Fuseau  was  eighteen,  and  she  lived  at  the 
Grand  Anse,  two  miles  out  of  St.  Esprit;  and  the  pro- 
cession of  young  fellows,  going  there  to  woo,  was  like 
a  pilgrimage,  exactly.  Among  them  came  one  from 
far  down  the  coast,  a  place  called  Riviere  Bourgeoise. 
He  was  a  deep  sea  fisherman,  from  off  a  vessel  which 
had  put  In  at  St.  Esprit  for  repairs,  mid-course  to  the 
Grand  Banks;  and  on  his  first  shore  leave  Maxence 
had  caught  sight  of  la  belle  orguellleuse,  who  had  come 
into  town  with  a  basket  of  eggs;  and  he  had  followed 
her  home,  at  a  little  distance,  sighing,  but  without  the 
courage  to  address  her  so  long  as  they  were  in  the  vil- 
lage.   He  was  a  very  handsome  young  fellow,  with  a 


82  Cape  Breton  Tales 

brown,  ruddy  skin,  and  the  most  beautiful  dark  curly 
hair  and  crisp  moustache  imaginable. 

Zabette  knew  he  was  behind  her ;  but  she  would  not 
turn;  not  she;  only  walked  a  little  more  proudly  and 
gracefully,  with  that  swinging  movement  of  hers,  like 
a  vessel  sailing  in  a  head  wind.  At  last,  when  they  had 
reached  the  Calvaire  at  the  end  of  the  village,  he  man- 
aged to  get  out  his  first  word. 

"  Oh!  "  he  cried,  haltingly.     ''  Mademoiselle!  " 

She  turned  half  about  and  fixed  her  dark  proud  eyes 
upon  him,  while  her  cheeks  crimsoned. 

*'Well,  m'sieur?" 

He  could  not  speak,  and  the  two  stared  at  each  other 
for  a  long  ti'me  in  silence,  while  the  thought  came  to 
her  that  this  was  the  man  for  whom  she  was  destined. 

''  Had  you  something  to  say  to  me?  "  she  repeated, 
finally,  in  a  tone  that  tried  to  be  severe,  but  was  really 
very  soft. 

He  nodded  his  curly  head,  and  licked  his  lips  hard 
to  moisten  them. 

"  I  cannot  wait  any  longer,"  she  protested,  after  a 
while.     "  They  need  me  at  home." 

She  turned  quickly  again,  as  if  to  go;  but  her  feet 
were  glued  to  the  ground,  and  she  did  not  take  a  step. 

"  Oh,  s'il  vous  plait,  mam'selle !  "  he  cried,  to  hold 
her.  *'  You  think  I  am  rude.  But  I  did  not  mean  to 
follow  you  like  this.  I  could  not  help  it.  You  are  so 
beautiful." 

The  look  he  gave  her  with  those  words  sank  deep 
into  her  heart  and  rooted  itself  there  forever.   In  vain, 


Their  True  Love  83 

for  the  rest  of  her  life,  she  might  try  to  tear  it  out; 
there  was  a  fatality  about  it.  Zabette,  fine  highstepper 
that  she  was,  had  been  caught  at  last.  She  knew  that 
she  ought  to  send  the  handsome  young  sailor  away; 
but  her  tongue  would  not  obey  her.  Instead,  it  uttered 
some  very  childish  words  of  confusion  and  pleasure; 
and  before  she  knew  it,  there  was  her  man  walking 
along  at  her  side,  with  one  hand  on  his  heart,  declaring 
that  she  was  the  most  angelic  creature  in  the  world, 
that  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  her,  that  he  could 
not  live  without  her,  and  that  she  must  promise  then 
and  there  to  be  his,  or  he  would  instantly  kill  himself. 
The  burning,  impassioned  look  in  his  eyes  struck  her 
with  dismay. 

"  But  I  cannot  decide  all  in  a  moment  like  this,*'  she 
protested,  in  a  weak  voice.  "  It  would  be  indecent.  I 
must  think." 

"  Think  I  "  he  retorted,  bitterly.  ''  Oh,  very  well. 
Then  you  do  not  love  me !  " 

"Ah,  but  I  do!  "  she  cried,  all  trembling. 

With  that  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her, 
and  nothing  more  was  heard  about  suicide  or  any  such 
subject. 

"  But  we  must  not  tell  any  one  yet,"  she  pleaded. 
"  They  would  not  understand." 

He  agreed,  with  the  utmost  readiness.  "  We  will 
not  tell  a  soul.  It  shall  be  exactly  as  you  wish.  But 
I  may  come  and  see  you?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  she  responded.  "  Often,  —  that  is, 
every  day  or  two,  —  at  Grande  Anse ;  and  perhaps  we 


84  Cape  Breton  Tales 

may  happen  to  "meet  sometimes  in  the  village,  as  well.'' 

"  The  Soldi  will  be  delaying  at  St.  Esprit  for  two 
weeks,"  he  explained,  as  they  walked  along,  hand  in 
hand.  *'  She  put  in  for  some  repairs.  By  the  end  of 
that  time,  perhaps  "  — 

"  Oh,  no,  not  so  soon  as  that,"  she  interrupted. 
"  We  must  let  a  longer  while  pass  first." 

She  gazed  at  him  yearningly.  "  You  will  be  return- 
ing by  here  in  the  autumn,  at  the  end  of  the  season  on 
the  Banks?" 

"  We  are  taking  on  three  men  from  St.  Esprit,"  he 
answered.  "  We  shall  stop  here  on  the  return  to  set 
them  ashore.  That  will  be  in  October,  near  the  end  of 
the  month,  if  the  season  is  good." 

She  sighed,  as  if  dreading  some  disaster;  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  again,  and  the  look  ended  in  a 
kiss.  It  is  not  by  words,  that  new  love  feeds  and 
grows. 

Before  they  reached  the  Grande  Anse  he  quitted 
her;  but  he  gave  her  his  promise  to  come  again  that 
evening.  He  did  —  that  evening,  and  two  evenings 
later,  and  so  on,  every  other  evening  for  those  two 
weeks.  Zabette's  old  mother  took  a  great  fancy  to 
him,  and  gave  him  every  encouragement;  but  the  old 
pere  Fuseau,  who  had  sailed  many  a  voyage,  in 
younger  days,  round  the  Horn,  would  never  speak  a 
good  word  for  him  —  and  perhaps  his  hostility  only 
increased  the  girl's  attachment. 

"A  little  grease  is  all  very  well  for  the  hair  of  a 
young  man,"  he  would  say.  "  But  this  scented 
pomade  they  use  nowadays  —  pah !  " 


Their  True  Love  85 

"  You  object  then  to  a  sailor's  being  a  gentleman?  " 
demanded  the  girl  haughtily. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  roared  the  old  pere  Fuseau.  "  Have  a 
care,  Zabette." 

Nevertheless,  the  two  lovers  found  plenty  of  chances 
to  be  alone  together;  and  they  would  talk,  in  low 
voices,  of  their  happiness  and  of  the  future,  which 
looked  very  bright  to  Zabette,  despite  all  the  uncer- 
tainties of  the  sea. 

*'  When  we  put  in  on  the  return  from  the  Banks," 
said  Maxence,  "  you  will  be  at  the  wharf  to  meet  me; 
and  that  very  day  we  will  announce  our  fiancailles. 
What  an  astonishment  for  everybody!  " 

'*And  then,"  she  asked —  "  after  that?  " 

"After  that,  I  will  stay  ashore  for  a  while.  They 
can  do  without  me  on  the  Soleil.  And  at  the  end  of  a 
month  "  —  he  told  her  the  rest  with  a  kiss;  and  surely 
Zabette  had  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life. 

But  for  the  time  being  the  affair  was  kept  very,  very 
secret,  so  that  people  might  not  get  to  gossiping.  Even 
those  frequent  expeditions  of  Maxence  to  the  Grande 
Anse  were  not  remarked,  for  he  always  came  after 
dusk:  and  when  the  fortnight  was  over  and  the  Soleil 
once  more  was  ready  for  sea,  the  two  sweethearts 
exchanged  keepsakes,  and  he  left  her. 

"  I  will  send  you  a  letter  from  St.  Pierre  Miquelon," 
he  said,  to  cheer  her,  while  he  wiped  away  her  tears 
with  a  silk  handkerchief. 

*'  Do  you  promise?  "  she  asked. 

He  promised.  Three  weeks  later  the  letter  arrived; 
and  it  told  her  that  his  heart  was  breaking  for  his  dear 


86  Cape  Breton  Tales 

little  Zabette.  "  Sois  fidele  —  be  true,"  were  the  last 
words.  The  letter  had  a  perfume  of  pomade  about 
it,  and  she  carried  it  all  summer  in  her  bodice,  taking 
it  out  many  times  a  day  to  scan  the  loving  words  again. 

In  St.  Esprit,  when  the  fishing  fleet  begins  to  return 
from  the  Banks,  they  keep  an  old  man  on  the  lookout 
in  the  church  tower;  and  as  soon  as  he  sights  a  vessel 
in  the  offing,  he  rings  the  bell. 

It  was  the  fourth  week  in  October  that  year  before 
the  bell  was  heard;  and  then  rapidly,  two  or  three  at  a 
time,  the  schooners  came  in.  First  the  Dame  Blanche, 
which  was  always  in  the  lead;  then  the  Etoile,  the  Deux 
Freres,  the  Lottie  B.,  and  the  Milo.  Every  day,  morn- 
ing or  afternoon,  the  bell  would  ring,  and  poor  Za- 
bette must  find  some  excuse  or  other  to  be  in  town. 
Down  at  the  wharf  there  was  always  gathered  an  anx- 
ious throng,  watching  for  the  appearance  of  the  vessel 
round  the  Cape.  And  when  she  was  visible  at  last, 
there  would  be  cries  of  joy  from  some,  and  silence  on 
the  part  of  others.  Zabette  was  among  the  silent. 
When  she  saw  the  happiness  about  her,  tears  would 
swim  unbidden  in  her  eyes;  but  of  course  she  did  not 
lose  heart,  for  still  there  were  several  vessels  to 
arrive,  and  no  disasters  had  been  reported  by  the 
earlier  comers.  People  noticed  her,  standing  there  with 
expectant  mien,  and  they  wondered  what  it  could  be 
that  brought  her;  but  it  was  not  their  habit  to  ask  ques- 
tions of  the  fine  highstepper. 

There  was  another  young  girl  on  the  wharf,  too, 
who  had  the  air  of  looking  for  some  one  —  a  certain 


Their  True  Love  87 

Suzanne  Benoit,  from  Ffitang,  three  miles  inshore,  a 
very  pretty  girl,  with  a  mild,  appealing  look  in  her 
brown  eyes.  Zabette  had  seen  her  often  here  and 
there;  but  she  had  no  acquaintance  with  her.  At  the 
present  moment,  strangely  enough,  she  felt  herself 
powerfully  drawn  to  this  Suzanne.  It  came  to  her, 
somehow,  that  the  girl  had  come  thither  on  a  mission 
similar  to  her  own,  she  was  so  silent,  and  had  not  the 
look  of  those  who  had  waited  on  the  wharf  in  previ- 
ous years.  And  so,  one  afternoon,  when  two  vessels 
had  rounded  the  Cape  and  were  entering  the  harbor, 
amid  a  great  hubbub  of  expectancy,  —  and  neither  of 
them  was  the  Soleil,  —  Zabette  surprised  a  look  of  woe 
in  the  face  of  the  other  which  she  could  not  resist.  She 
went  over  to  her,  with  some  diffidence,  and  offered  a 
few  words  of  sympathy. 

"You  are  waiting  for  some  one,  too?"  she  asked 
her. 

The  eyes  of  the  other  filled  quickly  to  overflowing. 
"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  He  has  not  come  yet." 

"  You  must  not  worry,"  said  Zabette,  stoutly. 
"  There  are  always  delays,  you  know.  Some  are 
ahead;  others  behind;  it  is  so  every  year." 

The  girl  gave  her  a  grateful  look,  and  squeezed  her 
hand.     "  It  is  a  secret,"  she  murmured. 

Zabette  smiled.    "  I  have  a  secret  too." 

"  Then  we  are  waiting  together,"  said  Suzanne. 
"  That  makes  it  so  much  easier  I  " 

They  walked  back  to  the  street,  arm  in  arm,  as  if 
they  had  always  been  bosom  friends.     And  the  next 


88  Cape  Breton  Tales 

day  they  were  both  at  the  wharf  again.  The  after- 
noon was  bleak;  but  as  usual  they  were  in  their  best 
clothes. 

"  Oh,  it  does  not  seem  as  if  I  could  wait  any  longer," 
whispered  Suzanne,  confidingly.  "  I  do  hope  it  will 
be  the  Soldi  this  time." 

''  The  Soleil!  '*  exclaimed  Zabette,  joyfully.  "  You 
are  waiting  for  the  Soleil? '' 

And  at  the  other's  nod,  she  went  on.  "  How  lovely 
that  we  are  expecting  the  same  vessel.  Oh,  I  am  sure 
it  will  come  to-day  —  or  certainly  to-morrow." 

The  two  girls  felt  themselves  very  close  together, 
now  that  they  had  shared  so  much  of  their  secret;  and 
it  made  the  waiting  less  hard  to  bear. 

*'  Is  he  handsome,  your  man?  "  asked  Suzanne, 
timidly. 

"  Ravishing,"  replied  Zabette,  eagerly.  *'And 
yours?  " 

Suzanne  sighed  with  adoration.  "  Beyond  words," 
was  her  reply  —  and  the  girls  exchanged  another  of 
those  pressures  of  the  hand  which  mean  so  much  where 
love  is  concerned.  "  He  has  the  most  beautiful  mous- 
tache in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  no,"  protested  Zabette,  smilingly.  "  Mine  has 
a  more  beautiful  one  yet,  and  such  crisp  curly  hair,  and 
dark  eyes." 

Her  companion  suddenly  looked  at  her.  *'  Large 
eyes  or  small?  "  she  asked  in  a  strange  voice. 

"  Oh,"  replied  Zabette,  doubtfully.  "  Not  too  large. 
I  would  not  fancy  ox  eyes  in  a  man." 


Their  True  Love  89 

Suzanne  freed  herself  and  stood  facing  her  with  a 
flash  of  hatred  in  her  mild  face  which  Zabette  could 
not  understand. 

"And  his  name!"  she  demanded,  harshly.  "His 
name,  then!  " 

Zabette  smiled  a  little  proudly.  "  That  is  my  secret," 
she  replied.     "  But,  Suzanne,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  It  is  not  your  secret,"  laughed  the  other,  bitterly. 
"  It  is  not  your  secret.     It  is  my  secret." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  cried  Zabette,  with  a  sudden 
feeling  of  terror  at  the  girl's  drawn  face. 

"  His  name  is  Maxence!  "  Suzanne's  laugh  was  like 
bones  rattling  in  a  coffin. 

It  seemed  to  Zabette  as  if  a  flash  of  lightning  had 
cleft  her  soul  in  two.  That  was  the  way  the  truth  came 
to  her.     She  drew  back  like  a  viper  ready  to  strike. 

"  Oh,  I  hate  you !  "  she  cried,  and  turned  on  her  heel, 
white  to  the  eyes  with  anger  and  shame. 

But  Suzanne  would  not  leave  her.  She  followed  to 
the  other  side  of  the  wharf,  and  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak  again  without  attracting  attention,  she  said, 
more  kindly : 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Zabette.  It  is  too  bad 
you  were  so  mistaken.  Why,  he  was  engaged  to  me 
the  very  second  day  he  came  ashore." 

Zabette  stifled  back  a  cry,  and  retorted,  icily,  "  He 
was  engaged  to  me  the  first  day.  He  followed  me  all 
the  way  to  the  Grande  Anse." 

Suzanne's  eyes  glittered,  this  time.  "  He  followed 
me  all  the  way  to  I'Etang.    He  is  mine." 


90  Cape  Breton  Tales 

Zabette  brought  out,  through  white  lips,  "  Leave  me 
alone.    He  was  mine  first." 

*'  He  was  mine  last,"  retaliated  the  other,  undaunt- 
edly. "  The  very  morning  he  went  away,  he  came  to  see 
me.  Did  he  come  to  you  that  day?  Did  he?  Did  he?" 

Zabette  ignored  her  question.  *'  He  wrote  me  a  let- 
ter from  St.  Pierre  Miquelon,"  she  announced,  crisply. 
"  So  that  settles  it,  first  and  last." 

The  hand  of  Suzanne  suddenly  lifted  to  her  bosom, 
as  if  feeling  for  something.  "  My  letter  was  written 
at  St.  Pierre,  too." 

For  an  instant  they  glared  at  each  other  like  wild 
animals  fighting  over  prey.  Neither  said  a  word. 
Neither  yielded  a  hair.  Each  felt  that  her  life's  hap- 
piness was  at  stake.  Zabette  had  thought  that  this 
chit  of  a  girl  from  I'fitang  was  mild  and  timid;  but 
now  she  realized  that  she  had  met  her  match  for  cour- 
age. And  the  thought  came  to  her:  "  When  he  sees 
us,  let  him  choose." 

She  was  not  conscious  of  having  uttered  the  words. 
Perhaps  her  glance,  swiftly  directed  toward  the  Cape, 
conveyed  the  thought  to  her  rival.  At  all  events  the 
answer  came  promptly  and  with  complete  self- 
assurance  : 

"  Yes,  let  Maxence  choose." 

Just  at  that  "moment  the  first  vessel  appeared  at 
the  harbor  entrance,  while  the  bell  redoubled  its  jubila- 
tion in  the  church  tower  on  the  hill. 

*'  The  Mercure!  ''  cried  an  old  woman.  "  Thank 
God  I" 


Their  True  Love  91 

And  a  few  minutes  later,  there  was  the  Anne-Marie^ 
all  sail  set  over  her  green  hull;  and  then  a  vessel  which 
at  first  no  one  seemed  to  recognize. 

"  Which  is  that?  "  they  asked.  "  Oh,  it  must  be  — 
yes,  it  is  the  Soleil,  from  Riviere  Bourgeoise.  She  has 
several  men  from  here  aboard." 

With  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  starting  from  her  head, 
Zabette  watched  the  Soleil  entering  the  harbor.  She 
could  distinguish  forms  on  deck.  She  saw  handker- 
chiefs waving.  At  last  she  could  begin  to  make  out 
the  faces  a  little.  But  she  did  not  discover  the  one  she 
sought.  Holding  tight  to  a  mooring  post,  unable  to 
think,  unable  to  do  anything  but  watch,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  hours  passed  before  the  schooner  cast  anchor 
and  a  boat  was  put  over.  There  were  four  persons  in 
it :  the  mate  and  the  three  men  from  St.  Esprit.  They 
rowed  rapidly  to  the  wharf;  and  the  three  men  threw 
up  their  gunny  sacks  and  climbed  the  ladder,  one  after 
the  other. 

The  mate  was  just  about  to  put  off  again  when 
Zabette  spoke  to  him.  She  leaned  over  the  edge  of  the 
wharf,  reaching  out  a  detaining  hand. 

''M'sieur!" 

At  the  same  instant  the  word  was  uttered  by  another 
voice  close  by.  She  looked  up  and  saw  Suzanne,  very 
white,  in  the  same  attitude. 

"What  is  it,  mesdemoiselles?  "  asked  the  mate, 
touching  his  vizor. 

As  if  by  concerted  arrangement  came  the  question 
from  both  sides. 


92  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"And  Maxence?" 

The  man  answered  them  seriously  and  directly,  per- 
ceiving from  their  manner  that  his  reply  was  of  great 
import  to  these  two,  whatever  the  reason  for  it  might  be. 

"Maxence?  —  But  we  do  not  know  where  he  is. 
There  was  a  fog.  He  was  out  in  a  dory,  alone.  We 
picked  up  the  dory  the  next  day.  Perhaps  "  —  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  incredulously  —  "  perhaps  he 
might  have  been  picked  up  by  another  vessel.  Who 
can  say?  " 

The  girls  gave  him  no  answer.  They  reeled,  and 
would  have  fallen,  save  that  each  found  support  in  the 
other's  arms.  Sinking  to  the  string  piece  of  the 
wharf,  they  buried  their  faces  on  each  other's  shoul- 
ders and  sobbed.  Happy  fathers  and  mothers  and 
sweethearts,  gathered  on  the  wharf,  looked  at  them  in 
wonder,  and  left  them  alone,  ignorant  of  the  cause  of 
their  grief.  So  a  long  time  passed,  and  still  they 
crouched  there,  tight  clasped,  with  buried  heads. 

"  He  was  so  good,  so  brave!  "  sobbed  Suzanne. 

"  I  loved  him  so  much,"  repeated  Zabette,  over  and 
over. 

"  I  shall  die  without  him,"  moaned  Suzanne. 

"  So  shall  I,"  responded  the  other.  "  I  cannot  bear 
to  live  any  longer." 

"  If  only  I  had  a  picture  of  him,  that  would  be  some 
comfort,"  said  the  poor  girl  from  I'fitang. 

"  I  have  one,"  said  Zabette,  sitting  up  straight  and 
putting  some  orderly  touches  to  her  disarranged  mou- 
choir.    "  He  gave  it  to  me  the  very  last  night," 


Their  True  Love  93 

Suzanne  looked  at  her  enviously,  and  mopped  her 
red  eyes.  ''All  I  have,"  she  sighed,  "  Is  a  little  shell 
box  he  brought  me,  with  the  motto,  A  ma  cherie.  He 
gave  me  that  the  very  last  morning  of  all.  It  is  very 
beautiful,  but  no  one  but  me  has  seen  It  yet." 

"  You  must  show  it  to  me  sometime,"  said  Zabette. 
*'  I  have  a  right  to  see  it." 

"  If  you  will  let  me  look  at  the  picture,"  consented 
the  other,  guardedly. 

"  Yes,  you  may  look  at  it,"  said  Zabette,  "  so  long  as 
you  do  not  forget  that  it  belongs  to  me." 

"  To  you!  "  retorted  the  other.  "And  have  you  a 
better  right  to  it  than  I,  seeing  that  he  would  have  been 
my  husband  In  a  month's  time?  You  are  a  bad,  cruel 
girl;  you  have  no  heart.  It  Is  a  mercy  he  escaped  the 
traps  you  set  for  him  —  my  poor  Maxence !  " 

A  thousand  taunting  words  came  to  Zabette's  lips, 
but  she  controlled  herself,  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  show 
of  dignity,  and  quitted  the  wharf.  She  resolved  that 
she  would  never  speak  to  that  Benoit  girl  again.  To 
do  so  was  only  to  be  insulted. 

She  went  back  to  her  home  on  the  Grande  Anse  and 
endeavored  to  take  up  her  everyday  life  again  as 
though  nothing  had  happened.  She  hid  her  grief  from 
the  neighbors,  even  from  her  own  parents,  who  had 
never  suspected  the  strength  of  her  attachment  for 
Maxence.  By  day  she  could  keep  herself  busy  about 
the  house,  and  the  secret  would  only  be  a  dull  pain; 
but  at  night,  especially  when  the  wind  blew,  it  would 
gnaw  and  gnaw  at  her  heart  like  a  hungry  beast. 


94  Cape  Breton  Tales 

At  last  she  could  keep  it  to  herself  no  longer.  She 
must  share  her  misery.  But  there  was  only  one  person 
In  the  world  who  could  understand.  She  declared  to 
herself  that  nothing  would  induce  her  to  go  to 
rfitang;  and  yet,  as  if  under  a  spell,  she  made  ready 
for  the  journey. 

''  Where  are  you  going,  my  Zabette?  "  asked  her  old 
mother. 

"  To  I'fitang,"  she  answered.  "  I  hear  there  Is  a 
girl  these  who  makes  a  special  brown  dye  for  wool." 

*'  Well,  the  walk  will  do  you  good,  ma  fille.  You 
have  been  indoors  too  much  lately.  You  are  growing 
right  pale  and  Ill-looking." 

*'  Oh,  it  is  nothing,  maman.  I  never  feel  very  brisk, 
you  know,  in  November.    'TIs  such  a  dreary  month."  , 

She  took  a  back  road  across  the  barrens  to  I'fitang. 
Scarcely  any  one  traveled  it  except  in  winter  to  fetch 
kindling  wood  from  the  scrub  fir  that  grew  there.  Con- 
sequently Zabette  was  much  surprised,  after  walking 
about  a  mile  and  a  half,  to  discover  that  some  one  was 
approaching  from  the  opposite  direction  —  a  woman, 
with  a  red  shawl  across  her  shoulders.  Gradually  the 
distance  between  them  lessened ;  and  then  she  saw,  with 
a  start,  that  It  was  Suzanne  Benoit.  Her  knees  began 
to  tremble  under  her.  When  they  met,  at  last,  no 
words  would  come  to  her  lips :  they  only  looked  at  each 
other  with  questioning,  hunted  eyes,  then  embraced, 
weeping,  and  sat  down  silently  on  a  moss-hummock  be- 
side the  road.  Zabette  had  not  felt  so  comforted  since 
the  disaster  of  October.     For  the  first  time  she  could 


Their  True  Love  95 

let  the  tears  flow  without  any  fear  of  detection.  At 
last  she  said,  very  calmly: 

"'  I  have  brought  the  picture." 

She  drew  it  out  from  under  her  coat,  and  held  it  on 
her  knees,  where  Suzanne  could  see  it. 

"And  here  is  the  shell  box,"  rejoined  her  compan- 
ion. "  I  do  not  know  how  to  read,  me ;  but  there  are 
the  words  —  A  ma  cherie.     It's  pretty  —  hein?  ** 

Each  gazed  at  the  other's  treasure. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Suzanne,  mournfully.  "  How  hand- 
some he  was  to  look  at  —  and  so  true  and  brave !  " 

"  I  shall  never  love  another,"  said  Zabette,  with  sad 
conviction  —  "  never.    Love  is  over  for  me." 

"And  for  me,"  said  Suzanne.  "  But  we  have  our 
memories." 

"  Mine,"  corrected  Zabette.    "  You  are  forgetting." 

"  Did  he  ever  give  you  a  present  that  said  A  ma 
cherie?  ^^  demanded  Suzanne,  pointedly. 

The  other  explained  blandly:  "  You  cannot  say  any- 
thing, my  dear,  on  the  back  of  a  tintype.  —  But  I  have 
my  letter  from  St.  Pierre." 

She  showed  it. 

"  Even  if  I  cannot  read  mine,"  declared  the  girl  from 
rfitang,  hotly,  "  I  know  it  is  fully  as  nice  as  yours. 
Nicer!" 

"  Oh,  can  I  never  see  you  but  you  must  insult  me !  " 
cried  Zabette.  "  Keep  your  old  box  and  your  precious 
letter  from  St.  Pierre  Miquelon.  What  can  they  mat- 
ter to  me?  " 

Without  a  word  of  good-by  she  sprang  to  her  feet 


96  CapeBreUmTaUs 

and  set  out  for  the  Grande  Anse.  %e  did  not  see  the 
Bcnott  gurl  again  that  winter;  but  she  could  not  help 
thinking  about  her,  sometimes  widi  sympathy,  some- 
times with  bitter  hatred.  The  young  men  came  flod^- 
ing  to  her  home,  as  usual,  vying  with  one  another  in 
attentions  to  her,  for  not  only  was  Zabette  known  as 
the  handsomest  giri  in  three  parishes,  but  also  as  an 
excellent  housekeeper  —  "  good  saver,  rare  spender." 

She  would  not  encourage  any  of  them,  however. 

**  If  I  marry,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  it  is  giving  Max- 
ence  over  to  that  r£tang  girL  She  will  crow  about  it. 
She  will  say,  'At  last  he  is  mine  altogether.  She  has 
surrendered.'    No,  I  could  not  stand  that." 

So  that  winter  passed,  and  the  next  summer,  and 
other  winters  and  summers.  Zabette  did  not  marry; 
and  after  a  time  she  began  hearing  herself  spoken  of 
as  an  old  maid.  The  young  men  floi^ed  to  other 
houses,  not  hers.  At  the  end  of  twelve  years  both  her 
father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  she  was  alone  in  die 
worldf  thirty,  and  unprovided  for. 

It  was,  of  course,  fated,  that  these  two  women  whose 
lives  had  been  so  strangely  entangled  should  drift 
together  again,  sooner  or  later.  So  long  as  both  were 
young  and  could  daim  love  for  themselves,  jealousy 
was  bound  to  separate  them;  but  when  they  found 
themselves  quite  alone  in  the  world,  no  longer  beauti- 
ful, no  longer  arousing  thoughts  of  love  in  the  breast 
of  another,  the  memory  of  all  diat  was  most  precious 
in  thdr  lives  drew  them  together  as  surely  as  a  magnet 
draws  two  \At%  of  metaL 


ThnrTnuLooe  97 

It  was  after  mass,  one  Sunday,  that  Zabctte  sought 
out  her  rival  finally  and  found  the  courage  to  propose 
a  singular  plan. 

"  You  are  alone,  Suzanne,"  she  said.  "  So  am  L 
We  are  both  poor.    Come  and  live  with  me," 

"And  you  will  give  me  Maxcnce?  "  asked  Suzanne, 
a  little  hardly. 

"  No.  But  I  will  give  you  half  of  him.  See,  why 
should  we  quarrel  any  more?  He  is  dead.  Let  us  be 
reasonable.    After  this  he  shall  belong  to  both  of  us." 

Still  the  vieille  file  from  TEtang  held  bade,  though 
her  eyes  softened. 

"All  these  years,"  she  said,  with  a  remnant  of  defi- 
ance —  "  all  these  years  he  has  been  mine.  I  did  not 
get  married,  me,  because  that  would  have  let  him 
belong  to  you." 

Zabette  sighed  wearily.  "And  all  these  years  I  have 
been  saying  the  same  thing.  And  yet  I  could  never  for- 
get the  shell  box  and  your  letter  from  St.  Pierre  Mi- 
quelon.  Come,  don't  you  see  how  much  easier  it  wiQ  be 
—  how  much  more  natural  —  if  we  put  our  treasures 
together :  all  we  have  of  Mairence,  and  call  him  omrsf  " 

Suzanne  was  beginning  to  3^eld,  but  doabtfuDy.  **  If 
it  would  be  proper,"  she  said. 

"  Not  if  he  were  living,  of  course,"  replied  the  other, 
with  assurance.  "  The  laws  of  the  church  forbid  Aat- 
But  in  the  course  of  a  lifetime  a  husband  may  have 
more  than  one  wife.  I  do  not  see  why,  when  a  hus- 
band is  dead,  two  wives  should  not  have  him.  Do 
you?" 


98  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"  I  will  come,"  said  Suzanne,  softly  and  gratefully. 
**  I  am  so  lonely." 

Three  years  later  the  two  women  moved  from  the 
Grande  Anse  into  the  village,  renting  the  little  cottage 
with  the  dormer  windows  in  which  they  have  lived  ever 
since.  You  must  look  far  to  find  so  devoted  a  pair. 
They  are  more  than  sisters  to  each  other.  If  their 
lives  have  not  been  happy,  as  the  world  judges  happi- 
ness, they  have  at  least  been  illumined  by  two  great 
and  abiding  loves,  —  which  does  not  happen  often,  — 
that  for  the  dead,  and  that  for  each  other. 


GARLANDS  FOR  PETTIPAW 


GARLANDS  FOR 
PETTIPAW 

lOWNS,  like  persons,  I  suppose,  wake  up 
now  and  then  to  find  themselves  famous; 
but  I  doubt  if  any  town  having  this  experi- 
ence could  be  more  amazed  by  it,  more 
dazed  by  it,  than  was  Three  Rivers,  one  day  last 
March,  when  we  opened  our  newspapers  from  Boston 
and  Montreal  and  lo,  there  was  our  own  name  staring 
at  us  from  the  front  page!  Three  Rivers  is  in  the 
Province  of  Quebec,  on  the  shore  of  the  Bay  de  Cha- 
leurs;  but  we  receive  our  metropolitan  papers  every 
day,  only  thirty-six  hours  off  the  presses;  and  this 
makes  us  feel  closely  in  touch  with  the  outside  world. 
Until  the  railroad  from  Matapedia  came  through,  four 
years  ago,  mail  was  brought  by  stage,  every  second 
day.  The  coming  of  the  railroad  had  seemed  an  im- 
portant event  then ;  but  it  had  never  put  Three  Rivers 
on  the  front  page  of  the  Boston  Herald. 

The  news-item  in  question  was  to  the  effect  that  the 
S.  S.  Maid  of  the  North,  Captain  Pettipaw  of  Three 
Rivers,  P.  Q.,  had  been  torpedoed,  forty  miles  off  Fast- 
net,  while  en  route  from  Sydney,  N.  S.,  to  Liverpool, 
with  a  cargo  of  pig-iron.  The  captain  and  crew  (said 
the  item)  had  been  allowed  to  take  to  the  boats;  but 
only  one  of  the  two  boats  had  been  heard  from.    That 


102  ^     ^      . , . . . .       Cape  Breton  Tales 

one  was  in  command  of  the  mate,  and  had  been  res- 
cued by  a  trawler. 

Captain  Pettipaw  of  Three  Rivers!  Our  Captain 
Pettipaw!  How  well  we  knew  him;  and  who  among 
us  had  ever  thought  of  him  as  one  likely  to  make  Three 
Rivers  figure  on  the  front  page  of  the  world's  news ! 
Yet  this  had  come  to  pass;  and  even  amid  the  anxiety 
we  felt  as  to  the  fate  of  Captain  Joe,  we  could  but  be 
agreeably  conscious  of  the  distinction  that  had  come  to 
our  little  community.  All  that  afternoon  poor  Mrs. 
Pettipaw's  house  was  thronged  with  neighbors  who 
hurried  over  there,  newspaper  in  hand,  ready  to  con- 
gratulate or  to  condole  as  might  seem  most  called  for. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Pettipaw  "  or  "  poor  Melina  "  was  the 
way  we  always  spoke  of  her,  partly,  I  suppose,  because 
of  her  nine  children,  and  partly  because  —  I  hesitate  to 
say  it  —  she  was  Captain  Joe's  wife.  But  now  that  it 
seemed  so  very  likely  she  might  be  his  widow,  our 
hearts  went  out  to  her  the  more.  You  see  Captain  Joe 
was,  in  our  local  phrase,  "  one  of  those  Pettipaws." 
Pettipaws  never  seemed  to  get  anywhere  or  to  do  any- 
thing that  mattered.  Pettipaws  were  always  behind- 
hand. Pettipaws  were  always  in  trouble,  one  way  or 
another.     It  was  a  family  characteristic. 

Only  five  or  six  years  ago  Captain  Joe's  new 
schooner,  the  Melina  P.,  had  broken  from  her  harbor 
moorings  under  a  sudden  gale  from  the  northwest  and 
driven  square  on  the  Fiddle  Reef,  where  she  foundered 
before  our  eyes.  Other  vessels  were  anchored  close  by 
the  Melina  P.;  but  not  one  of  them  broke  loose.  All 
the  Captain's  savings  for  years  and  years  had  gone 


Garlands  for  Pettipaw  103 

into  the  new  schooner,  not  to  speak  of  several  hun- 
dreds borrowed  from  his  fellow-townsmen. 

And  the  very  next  winter  his  house  had  burned  to 
the  ground ;  and  the  seven  children  —  there  were  only 
seven  then  —  had  been  parceled  out  amongst  the  neigh- 
bors for  six  or  seven  months  until,  about  midsummer, 
the  new  house  was  roofed  over  and  the  windows  set; 
and  then  the  family  moved  in,  and  there  they  lived  for 
several  more  months,  "  sort  of  camping-out  fashion," 
as  poor  Melina  cheerfully  put  it,  while  Captain  Joe 
was  occasionally  seen  putting  on  a  row  of  shingles  or 
sawing  a  board.  At  last,  after  the  snow  had  begun  to 
fly,  the  neighbors  came  once  more  to  the  rescue.  A  col- 
lection was  made  for  the  stricken  family;  carpenters 
finished  the  house ;  a  mason  built  the  chimney  and  plas- 
tered the  downstairs  partitions ;  curtains  were  donated 
for  the  windows ;  and  the  Pettipaws  spent  the  winter  in 
comfort. 

The  following  spring  Captain  Joe  got  a  position  as 
second  officer  on  a  coastwise  ship  out  of  Boston,  and 
the  affairs  of  the  family  began  to  look  up.  From  that 
he  was  promoted  to  the  captaincy  of  a  little  freighter 
plying  between  Montreal  and  the  Labrador;  and  the 
next  we  knew,  he  was  in  command  of  a  large  collier 
sailing  out  of  Sydney,  Nova  Scotia.  Poor  Melina 
appeared  in  a  really  handso'me  new  traveling  suit, 
ordered  from  the  big  mail  order  house  in  Montreal; 
and  the  young  ones  could  all  go  to  church  the  same 
Sunday,  and  often  did. 

For  the  last  year  or  two  we  had  ceased  to  make  fre- 
quent inquiries  after  Captain  Joe;  he  had  dropped 


104  Cape  Breton  Tales 

pretty  completely  out  of  our  life ;  and  the  thought  that 
he  might  be  holding  a  commission  of  special  danger- 
ousness  had  never  so  much  as  entered  our  minds.  But 
poor  Melina's  calmness  in  the  face  of  the  news-item 
surprised  everyone.  It  was  like  a  reproach  to  her 
neighbors  for  not  having  acknowledged  before  the 
worth  of  the  man  she  had  married.  It  had  not 
required  a  German  torpedo  to  teach  her  that.  And  as 
for  his  safety,  that  apparently  caused  her  no  anxiety 
whatever. 

"  You  couldn't  kill  the  Captain,"  she  repeated,  with 
a  quiet,  untroubled  smile,  which  was  as  much  as  to  say 
that  anything  else  might  happen  to  a  Pettipaw,  but  not 
that. 

The  rest  of  us  admired  her  faith  without  being  able 
to  share  it.  Poor  Melina  rarely  had  leisure  to  read  a 
newspaper,  and  she  did  not  know  much  about  the  dis- 
asters of  the  war  zone.  And  so,  instinctively,  every- 
one began  to  say  the  eulogistic  things  about  Captain 
Joe  that  had  never  been  said  —  though  now  we  real- 
ized they  ought  to  have  been  said  —  while  he  was 
with  us. 

"  He  was  such  a  good  man,"  said  Mrs.  Thibault,  the 
barrister's  wife.  "  So  devoted  to  his  home.  I  remem- 
ber of  how  he  would  sit  there  on  the  doorstep  for 
hours,  watching  his  little  ones  at  their  play.  Poor 
babies !    Poor  little  babies  I  " 

"  Such  a  brave  man,  too;  and  so  witty!  "  said  John 
Boutin,  our  tailor.  "The  stories  he  would  tell,  my! 
my!     Many  a  day  in  the  shop  he'd  be  telling  stories 


Garlands  for  Pettipaw  105 

from  dinner  till  dark,  without  once  stopping  for  breath 
as  you  might  say.     It  passed  the  time  so  nice !  " 

"And  devout!  "  added  Mrs.  Fougere,  the  postmis- 
tress. "A  Christian.  He  loved  to  listen  to  the  church- 
bells.  I  remember  like  it  was  yesterday  his  saying  to 
me,  '  The  man,'  he  said,  '  who  can  hear  a  church-bell 
without  thinking  of  religion,  is  as  good  as  lost,  to  my 
thinking.'  " 

"  Not  that  he  went  to  church  very  often,"  said 
Boutin. 

"  His  knee  troubled  him,"  explained  Mrs.  Fougere. 

Early  in  the  evening  came  the  cable  message  that 
justified  poor  Melina's  confidence.  Eugenie  White 
—  the  Whites  used  to  be  Le  Blancs,  but  since  Eugenie 
came  back  from  Boston,  they  have  taken  the  more  up- 
to-date  name  —  Eugenie  came  flying  up  the  street  from 
the  railroad  station,  waving  the  yellow  envelope  and 
spreading  the  news  as  she  flew.  The  message  consisted 
of  only  one  word:  "  Safe  ";  but  It  was  dated  Queens- 
town,  and  it  bore  the  signature  we  were  henceforth  to 
be  so  proud  of :  Joseph  Pettipaw. 

Two  days  later  the  Herald  contained  a  notice  of  the 
rescue  by  a  Norwegian  freighter  of  the  Captain  of  the 
Maid  of  the  North;  but  we  had  to  wait  ten  days  for 
the  full  story,  which  occupied  two  columns  in  one  of 
the  Queenstown  journals  and  almost  as  much  in  the 
Dublin  Post,  with  a  very  lifelike  photograph  of  Cap- 
tain Joe.  It  was  a  wonderful  story,  as  you  may  very 
likely  remember,  for  the  American  papers  gave  it 
plenty  of  attention  a  little  later. 


106  Cape  Breton  Tales 

It  had  been  a  calm,  warm  day,  but  with  an  immense 
sea  running.  Before  entering  the  war  zone  Captain 
Joe  had  made  due  preparation  for  emergencies.  The 
ship's  boats  were  ready  to  be  swung,  and  in  each  was 
a  barrel  of  water  and  a  supply  of  biscuit  and  other 
rations.  The  submarine  was  not  sighted  until  it  was 
too  late  to  think  of  escaping;  the  engines  were  reversed ; 
and  when  the  German  commander  called  out  through 
his  megaphone  that  ten  minutes  would  be  allowed  for 
the  escape  of  the  crew,  all  hands  hurried  to  the  lee  side 
and  began  piling  into  the  boats.  The  mate's  was  low- 
ered away  first  and  cleared  safely. 

The  Captain  was  about  to  give  the  order  for  the 
lowering  of  his  own  boat,  when  the  only  woman  in  the 
party  cried  out  that  her  husband  was  being  left  behind. 
It  was  the  cook,  who  was  indulging  in  an  untimely  nap, 
his  noonday  labors  in  the  galley  being  over.  In  her 
first  excitement  Martha  Figman  had  failed  to  notice 
his  absence,  but  had  made  for  the  boat  as  fast  as  she 
could,  carrying  her  three-year-old  child. 

"  Be  quick!  "  called  out  the  commander  of  the  sub- 
marine.    "  Your  time  is  up !  " 

"  Oh,  Captain,  Captain,  don't  leave  him,"  implored 
the  desperate  woman.     "  He's  all  I  have!  " 

Then  Captain  Joe  did  the  thing  that  will  go  down 
in  history.  He  seized  the  little  girl  and  held  her  aloft 
in  his  arms  and  called  out  to  the  Germans : 

"  In  the  name  of  this  little  child,  grant  me  three 
more  minutes." 

"  Two !  "  replied  the  commander. 


Garlands  for  Pettipaw  107 

Captain  Joe  leaped  to  the  deck  and  rushed  aft,  burst 
open  the  cook's  cabin,  and  hauled  Danny  Figman,  quite 
sound  asleep,  out  of  his  berth.  The  poor  rascal  was 
only  partly  dressed,  but  there  was  no  time  to  make  him 
presentable.  A  blanket  and  a  sou'wester  had  to  suffice. 
Still  bewildered,  he  was  dragged  on  deck  and  ordered 
to  run  for  his  life. 

A  few  seconds  later  the  boat  lowered  away  with  its 
full  quota  of  passengers;  the  men  took  the  oars, 
cleared  a  hundred  yards  safely;  and  then  there  was  a 
snort,  a  white  furrow  through  the  waves,  an  explosion ; 
the  Maid  of  the  North  listed,  settled,  and  disappeared. 
The  submarine  steamed  quickly  out  of  sight;  and  the 
two  boats  were  all  that  was  left  as  witness  of  what  had 
happened. 

On  account  of  the  terrible  seas  that  were  running, 
the  boats  soon  became  separated;  and  for  sixty-two 
hours  Captain  Joe  bent  his  every  energy  to  keeping  his 
boat  afloat,  for  she  was  in  momentary  danger  of  being 
swamped,  until  on  the  third  morning  the  Norwegian 
was  sighted,  came  to  the  rescue,  and  carried  the 
exhausted  occupants  into  Queenstown. 

Three  Rivers,  you  may  depend,  had  this  story  by 
heart,  and  backward  and  forward,  long  before  Cap- 
tain Joe  returned  to  us;  for  not  only  did  it  appear  in 
those  Irish  journals,  but  also  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Captain's  arrival  in  New  York  in  several  metropolitan 
papers,  written  up  with  great  detail,  and  with  a  pic- 
ture of  little  Tina  Figman  in  the  Captain's  anus. 

"  This  is  the  Captain,"  ran  the  print  under  the  pic- 


108  Cape  Breton  Tales 

ture,  "  who  risked  his  life  that  a  baby  might  not  be 
fatherless." 

You  can  imagine  how  anxious  we  were  by  this  time 
in  Three  Rivers  to  welcome  that  Captain  home  again; 
not  one  of  us  but  wanted  to  make  ample  amends  for 
the  injustice  we  had  done  him  in  the  past.  But  we  had 
to  wait  several  weeks,  for  even  after  the  owners  had 
brought  Captain  Joe  and  his  crew  back  to  New  York 
on  the  St.  Louis,  still  he  had  to  go  to  Montreal  for  a 
ten  days'  stay,  to  depose  his  evidence  officially  and  to 
wind  up  the  affairs  of  the  torpedoed  ship.  But  at  last 
he  was  positively  returning  to  us;  and  extensive  prep- 
arations were  undertaken  for  his  reception. 

As  he  was  coming  by  the  St.  Lawrence  steamer, 
Lady  of  Gaspe,  the  principal  decorations  were  massed 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  government  wharf.  If  I  tell  you 
that  well  nigh  three  hundred  dollars  had  been  collected 
for  this  purpose  from  the  good  people  of  Three 
Rivers,  you  can  form  some  idea  of  the  magnitude  of 
the  effort.  A  double  row  of  saplings  had  been  set  up 
along  the  wharf  and  led  thence  to  the  Palace  of  Jus- 
tice; and  the  full  distance,  an  eighth  of  a  mile,  was 
hung  with  red  and  tricolor  bunting.  Then  there  were 
three  triumphal  arches,  one  at  the  head  of  the  wharf, 
one  at  the  turn  into  the  street,  and  one  in  front  of  the 
post-office.  These  arches  were  very  cleverly  built,  with 
little  turrets  at  the  corners,  the  timber-work  completely 
covered  with  spruce-branches ;  and  each  arch  displayed 
a  motto.  Mrs.  Fougere  and  Eugenie  White  had  de- 
vised the  mottoes,  little  John  Boutin  had  traced  the 


Garlands  for  Pettipazv  109 

letters  on  cotton,  and  Mrs.  Boutin  had  painted  them. 
The  first  read:  "  Honor  to  Our  Hero."  The  second 
was  in  French,  for  the  reason  that  half  our  population 
still  use  that  language  by  preference,  and  It  read: 
*'  Honneur  a  notre  Hero  " ;  and  the  third  arch  bore  the 
one  word,  ornately  inscribed:  "Welcome." 

All  the  houses  along  the  way  were  decorated  with 
geraniums  and  flags;  and  as  the  grass  was  already  very 
green  (It  was  June)  and  the  willows  and  silver-oaks 
beginning  to  leave  out,  It  may  fairly  be  said  that  Three 
Rivers  was  a  beauty  spot. 

Seeing  that  no  one  can  tell  beforehand  when  a 
steamer  Is  going  to  arrive,  the  whole  town  was  In  Its 
best  clothes  and  ready  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing. The  neighbors  trooped  In  at  poor  Mellna^s,  offer- 
ing their  services  In  case  any  of  the  children  still  needed 
combing,  curling,  or  buttoning;  and  all  through  the 
forenoon  the  young  people  were  climbing  to  the  top  of 
St.  Anne's  hill  to  see  If  there  was  any  sign  of  the  Lady 
of  Gaspe;  but  It  was  not  till  three  In  the  afternoon  that 
the  church-bell,  madly  ringing,  announced  that  the 
long-expected  moment  was  about  to  arrive. 

I  wish  I  could  quote  for  you  in  full  the  account  of 
that  day's  doings  which  appeared  In  our  local  sheet, 
the  Bonaventure  Record,  for  It  was  beautifully  written 
and  described  every  feature  as  It  deserved,  reproducing 
verbatim  the  Mayor's  address  of  welcome.  Father 
Quinnan's  speech  In  the  Palace,  and  the  Resolutions 
drawn  up  by  ten  representative  citizens  and  presented 
to    Captain    Pettlpaw    on   a    handsomely    Illuminated 


110  Cape  Breton  Tales 

scroll,  which  you  may  see  to-day  hanging  in  the  place 
of  honor  in  his  parlor. 

But  let  my  readers  imagine  for  themselves  the 
arrival  of  the  steamer,  the  cheer  upon  cheer  as  Captain 
Joe  came  gravely  down  the  gang-plank;  the  affecting 
meeting  between  him  and  poor  Melina  and  the  nine 
little  Pettipaws,  the  littlest  of  whom  he  had  never  seen, 
and  several  of  whom  had  grown  so  in  these  last  four 
years  that  he  had  the  names  wrong,  which  caused 
happy  laughter  and  happy  tears  on  all  sides.  Then  the 
procession  to  the  Palace  I  There  was  an  orchestra  of 
four  pieces  from  Cape  Cove;  and  a  troop  of  little 
girls,  in  white,  scattered  tissue-paper  flowers  along  the 
line  of  march. 

The  Mayor  began  his  speech  by  saying  that  an 
honor  had  come  to  our  little  town  which  would  be 
rehearsed  from  father  to  son  for  generations.  Father 
Quinnan  took  for  his  theme  the  three  words:  ''  Father, 
Husband,  Hero  " ;  and  he  showed  us  how  each  of  those 
words,  in  its  highest  and  best  sense,  necessarily  com- 
prised the  other  two.  And  the  exercises  closed  with  a 
very  enjoyable  piano  duet  which  you  doubtless  know: 
"  Wandering  Dreams,"  by  some  foreign  composer. 

People  watched  Captain  Joe  very  closely.  It  would 
have  been  only  natural  if,  returning  to  us  in  this  way, 
he  should  have  remembered  a  time,  not  so  long  before, 
when  the  attitude  of  his  fellow-citizens  had  been  ex- 
tremely cool.  But  if  he  remembered  it,  he  gave  no 
sign ;  and  he  smiled  at  everyone  in  a  grave,  thoughtful 
manner  that  made  one's  heart  beat  high. 


Garlands  for  Pettipaw  111 

"  He  has  aged,"  whispered  Mrs.  Fougere.  "But 
his  face  is  noble.  It  reminds  me  of  Napoleon, 
somehow." 

"  To  me  he  looks  more  like  that  American  we  see  so 
often  in  the  papers  —  Bryan.  So  much  dignity !  "  This 
from  Mrs.  Boutin. 

We  appreciated  the  Captain's  freedom  from  conde- 
scension the  more  when  we  heard  from  his  own  lips, 
that  same  evening,  a  recital  of  the  honors  that  had 
been  showered  upon  him  during  the  past  weeks.  The 
Mayor  of  Queenstown  had  had  him  to  dinner;  Lady 
Derntwood,  known  as  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Ireland,  had  entertained  him  for  three  days  at  Dernt- 
wood Park,  and  sent  an  Indian  shawl  as  a  present  to 
his  wife.  On  the  St.  Louis  he  had  sat  at  the  Captain's 
right  hand;  in  New  York  he  had  been  interviewed  and 
royally  feted  by  the  newspaper-men ;  and  at  Montreal 
the  owners  had  presented  him  with  a  gold  watch  and  a 
purse  of  $250.  Also,  they  had  offered  him  another 
ship  immediately. 

"  Oh,  you're  going  again!  "  we  exclaimed;  and  the 
words  were  repeated  from  one  to  another  in  admira- 
tion —  "  He's  going  again !  "  But  Captain  Joe  smiled 
thoughtfully. 

"  I  told  them  I  didn't  mind  being  torpedoed,"  he 
said  ('Oh,  no!  Certainly  not!  Mind  being  torpe- 
doed; you!     Captain  Joe! ')  "but  —  " 

"But  what.  Captain?"  — 

"  But  I  said  as  I  couldn't  bear  for  to  see  a  little  child 
exposed  again  in  an  open  boat  for  sixty-four  hours." 


112  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"  But  Captain,  wouldn't  they  give  you  a  ship  with- 
out a  child?  " 

"  They  said  they  would,"  he  replied,  doubtfully, 
shaking  his  head. 

"Then  what  will  you  be  doing  next?"  we  asked, 
mentally  reviewing  the  various  fields  in  which  he  might 
add  laurels  to  laurels. 

He  meditated  a  little  while  and  then  replied: 
"  Home'll  suit  me  pretty  good  for  a  spell." 

Well,  that  could  be  understood,  certainly.  Indeed, 
it  was  to  his  credit.  We  remembered  Father  Quln- 
nan's  speech.  The  husband,  the  father,  had  their  claim. 
A  little  stay  at  home,  in  the  bosom  of  loved  ones,  yes, 
to  be  sure,  it  seemed  fitting  and  right,  after  the  perils 
of  the  sea. 

And  yet,  why  was  It,  as  we  took  down  the  one-eighth- 
mile  of  bunting  that  night,  there  was  a  faint  but  per- 
ceptible dampening  of  our  enthusiasm.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  reaction  from  the  strain  and  excitement  of  the  day, 
for  it  had  been,  there  was  no  denying  It,  a  day  of  days 
for  Three  Rivers;  a  day,  which,  as  Father  Quinnan 
had  said,  would  be  writ  in  letters  of  gold  In  Memory's 
fair  album.  This  day  was  ended  now,  and  night  came 
down  upon  a  very  proud  and  very  tired  little 
community. 

If  this  were  a  fancy  story  instead  of  a  record  of 
things  that  came  to  pass  last  year  on  the  Gaspe  Coast, 
my  pen  should  stop  here;  but  as  it  is,  I  feel  under  a 
plain  obligation  to  pursue  the  narrative. 


Garlands  for  Pettipaw  113 

I've  no  doubt  that  many  other  towns  in  the  history 
of  the  world  have  faced  precisely  the  same  problem 
that  Three  Rivers  faced  in  the  months  following: 
namely,  what  to  do  with  a  hero  when  you  have  one. 
Oh,  if  you  could  only  set  them  up  on  a  pedestal  in 
front  of  the  Town  Hall  or  the  post-office  and  keep 
them  there !  A  statue  is  so  practicable.  Once  in  so 
often,  say  on  anniversaries,  you  can  freshen  it  up,  hang 
it  with  garlands  and  bunting,  and  polish  the  inscrip- 
tion ;  and  then  the  school-children  can  come,  and  some- 
body can  explain  to  them  about  the  statue,  and  why  we 
should  venerate  it,  and  what  were  the  splendid  quali- 
ties of  the  hero  which  we  are  to  try  to  imitate  in  our 
own  lives.  I  hope  that  all  cities  with  statues  realize 
their  happy  condition. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  after  the  Great  Day  Three 
Rivers  still  kept  its  air  of  festivity.  The  triumphal 
arches  could  be  appreciated  even  from  the  train,  and 
many  travelers,  we  heard,  passing  through,  leaned  out 
of  the  windows  and  asked  questions  of  the  station 
agent. 

Wherever  Captain  Joe  went,  there  followed  a  little 
knot  of  children,  listening  open-mouthed  for  any 
word  that  might  fall  from  his  lips;  and  you  could 
hear  them  explaining  to  one  another  how  it  was  that  a 
man  could  be  torpedoed  and  escape  undamaged.  At 
first  no  one  of  lesser  importance  than  the  Mayor  or 
the  Bank  Manager  presumed  to  walk  with  him  on  the 
street;  and  he  was  usually  to  be  seen  proceeding  in 
solitary  dignity  to  or  from  the  post-office,  head  a  little 


114  Cape  Breton  Tales 

bowed,  one  hand  in  the  opening  of  his  coat,  his  step 
slow  and  thoughtful,  while  the  children  pattered  along 
behind. 

But  the  barrier  between  the  Captain  and  his  fellow- 
townstnen  was  entirely  of  their  own  creation,  it  tran- 
spired, for  he  was  naturally  a  sociable  man,  and  now 
more  than  ever  he  craved  society,  being  sure  of  a  def- 
erential hearing.  Once  established  again  in  Boutin's 
tailor-shop  and  pool-parlor,  he  seemed  disposed  never 
to  budge  from  it;  and  as  often  as  you  might  pass,  day 
or  night,  you  could  hear  him  holding  forth  to  what- 
ever company  happened  to  be  present.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  gather  many  scraps  of  his  discourse,  for 
his  voice  was  as  loud  as  an  orator's. 

*'And  Lady  Derntwood  —  no,  it  was  Lady  Gene- 
vieve, Lady  Derntwood's  dairter  by  her  first  husband 
and  fully  as  beautiful  as  her  mother,  she  said  to  me, 
*  Captain,'  she  said,  '  when  I  read  that  about  the  little 
girl  —  For  the  sake  of  this  little  child,  grant  me  three 
minutes !  —  the  tears  filled  my  eyes,  and  I  said  to  my 
maid,  who  had  brought  me  my  Times  on  the  breakfast 
tray,  "  Lucienne,"  I  said,  "  that  is  a  man  I  should  be 
proud  to  know!  "  '  —  and  that's  a  fact  sir,  as  true  as 
I'm  settin'  here,  for  Lucienne  herself  told  me  the  same 
thing.  A  little  beauty,  that  Lucienne:  black  hair; 
medium  height.     We  used  to  talk  French  together." 

Or  another  time  you  would  hear:  "And  they  said  to 
me,  *  Captain,'  they  says,  '  and  are  you  satisfied  with 
the  gold  watch  and  chain  and  with  the  little  purse  we 
have  made  up  for  you  here,  not  pretending,  of  course, 


Garlands  for  Pettipaw  115 

for  one  minute,'  they  says,  '  that  'tis  any  measure  of 
the  services  you  have  rendered  to  us  or  to  your  coun- 
try. We  ask  you,'  they  says,  '  are  you  satisfied?  '  And 
I  said,  ^  I  am,'  and  the  fact  is,  I  was,  for  the  watch  I'd 
lost  was  an  Ingersoll,  and  my  clothes  put  together 
wouldn't  have  brought  a  hundred  dollars." 

So  the  weeks  went  by;  and  the  triumphal  arches,  on 
which  the  mottoes  had  run  a  good  deal,  were  taken 
down  and  broken  up  for  kindling;  and  still  Captain  Joe 
sat  and  talked  all  day  long  and  all  night  long,  too,  if 
only  anybody  would  listen  to  him.  But  listeners  were 
growing  scarce.  His  story  had  been  heard  too  often; 
and  any  child  in  town  was  able  to  correct  him  when  he 
slipped  up,  which  often  happened.  The  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  was  spent  long  since,  and  now  the 
local  merchants  were  forced  to  insist  once  more  on 
strictly  cash  purchases,  and  many  a  day  the  Pettipaw 
family  must  have  "  done  meagre,"  as  the  French  say. 
Unless  all  signs  failed,  they  would  be  soon  living  again 
at  the  charge  of  the  community.  Close  your  eyes  if 
you  like,  sooner  or  later  certain  grim  truths  will  be 
borne  home  to  you.  A  leopard  cannot  change  his 
spots,  nor  a  Pettipaw  his  skin.  Before  our  very  eyes 
the  honor  and  glory  of  Three  Rivers,  the  thing  that 
was  to  be  passed  from  generation  to  generation,  was 
vanishing:  worse  than  that,  we  were  becoming  ridicu- 
lous in  our  own  eyes,  which  is  harder  to  bear,  even, 
than  being  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  others. 

There  was  one  remedy  and  only  one.  It  was  plain 
to  anybody  who  considered  the  situation  thoughtfully. 


116  CmpelkmmTmles 

Ciplwi  J«ie  ■■Bit  be  got  away.  So  kmg  as  your  hano 
B  afii^  Ik  cam  calf  be  viewed  advanAascoasly  at  a  As- 
At  all  cvcBis.  if  be  b  a  Pcttqnw. 
It  was  proposed  tbat  we  sboaU  elect  him  our  local 
to  tbe  ptwiiial  Fufiament.  It  m^jht  be 
We  iM££i  Hid  it  to  ban,  dwdfing  iqion  the 
it  wuwld  alocd  lor  tbe  exeicise  of  his 
I,  wc  said,,  weie  beii^  thrown  away 
Tbree  Kvas.  He  conceded  tbat 
tbe  tmb;  «*  but,"  be  said,  alter  a  momoit  of 
I  am  a  sailor  bom  and  bred,  and 
stand  tbe  confinement.  XeFcr! '* 
fonnd  tbat  wr  could  semre  for  him  tbe 
amAtS.S,LMJjofik^Gmspe,  But 
emphadcaDr. 
^INirser!  — Me!"'     Tbeie  was  evident  nothing 

to  be  said. 

Writing  to  Montreal,  Father  Qniman  learned  that 
if  be  so  widicd  Captain  Pettipaw  might  have  again  the 
of  tbe  fitde  fm^acr  tbat  ran  to  the  Labra- 
;  and  tbe  puijwiMlion  was  laid  before  him  widi  san- 
K  capcUationsL    ilgun  be  dccfined. 
TbeLabradorl  Tbankyon!  Tber  wouldn't  even 
Iwasl" 
*- Ton  corid  tdl  tbcB,  Captain." 
"  What  good  wodd  that  do?  " 
Xo  answq  being  f oftbconing  to  this  drniand,  still 
another  scheme  bad  to  be  songM.    It  was  the  Mayor 
who  find^  saved  the  daj  for  Three  RivciSw    He  inrti- 
gated  a  Patriotic  Fond^  to  which  ewerj  man,  woman 


117 
ht€add,amdmtikAcfto- 

(ifce  had  beta  kMKkcd  doM  far 
a  AcriTs  «alc  at  Cai^rfllna);  Ac  m» 

m  October,  to  C^ptam  Joe,  as  a  tribole  of  crten 


It  is  mat  for  ok  Id  saj  fBrt  kov  graieM 
licait;  bat  be  anrplrJ  dv  pft 
ud  bd^xe  Ibe  wkler  kc  cioscd  tbe  G^  (so 

m  cuned  oat)  tbe 
Gianm  was  ica^  to  safl  wilb  a  caiga  of  dfy  fefc  for 
tbe 

The 
b^  £ucvcfl  iKct^  m  tbe  Pdace  of 
b^  tbe  Ifefor  aod  Fatber 


OCmMmmhMU 


118  Cape  Breton  Tales 

never  before  what  a  debt  of  gratitude  we  owed  him. 
At  last  our  hero  was  our  hero  again. 

There  Is  but  Httle  more  to  tell.  The  next  morning, 
bright  and  early,  everybody  was  at  the  wharf  to  watch 
the  Gloria  hoist  her  sails,  weigh  anchor,  and  tack  out 
into  the  bay.  There  were  tears  In  many,  many  eyes 
besides  those  of  poor  Mrs.  Pettipaw.  The  sea  had  a 
dark  look,  off  there,  and  one  thought  of  the  dangers 
that  awaited  any  man  who  sailed  out  on  it  at  this  time 
of  the  year. 

"  Heaven  send  him  good  passage !  "  said  Mrs.  Thi- 
bault,  wiping  her  eyes  vigorously. 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  bring  him  safe  home  again,  the  brave 
man!  "  added  Mrs.  Boutin,  earnestly;  and  all  those 
who  heard  her  breathed  a  sincere  amen  to  that  prayer. 

It  was  sincere.  We  had  wanted  Captain  Joe  to  go 
away;  we  had  actually  forced  him  to  go  away;  yet  no 
sooner  was  he  gone  than  we  prayed  he  might  be 
brought  safe  home  again.  Yes,  for  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  a  town  that  has  a  hero  must  love  him  and 
cherish  him  and  wish  him  well.  Because  we  have  ours, 
Three  Rivers  will  always  be  a  better  place  to  live  in 
and  to  bring  up  children  in :  a  more  inspiring  place. 

Only,  perhaps,  if  Mrs.  Boutin  had  spoken  less  im- 
pulsively, she  would  have  added  one  or  two  qualifying 
clauses  to  her  petition.  For  instance,  she  might  have 
added:  "  Only  not  too  soon,  and  not  for  too  long  at 
once  I  "  But  for  my  part,  I  believe  that  will  be  under- 
stood by  the  good  angel  who  puts  these  matters  on 
record,  up  there. 


''%!   'A 


FLY,  MY  HEART! 


<=^ 


FLY,  MY  HEART! 

HEY  called  her  Sabine  Bob— '^  S'been  Bob  " 
—  because  her  real  name  was  Sabine  Anne 
Boudrot;  and  being  a  Boudrot  in  Petit  Es- 
poir  is  like  being  a  Smith  or  a  Brown  in  our 
part  of  the  world,  only  ten  times  more  so,  for  in  that 
little  fishing-port  of  Cape  Breton,  down  in  the  Mari- 
time Provinces,  practically  everybody  belongs  to  the 
abounding  tribe.  Boudrot,  therefore,  having  ceased  to 
possess  more  than  a  modicum  of  specificity  (to  bor- 
row a  term  from  the  logicians),  the  custom  has  arisen 
of  tagging  the  various  generations  and  households  of 
Boudrots  with  the  famihar  name  of  the  father  that 
begat  them. 

And  thus  Sabine  Anne  Boudrot,  "  old  girl  "  of  fifty, 
was  known  only  as  Sabine  Bob,  and  Mary  Boudrot, 
her  friend,  to  whom  she  was  dictating  a  love-letter  on 
a  certain  August  evening,  was  known  only  as  Mary 
Willee  —  with  the  accent  so  strongly  on  the  final  syl- 
lable that  it  sounded  like  Marywil-Lee.  Sabine  Bob 
was  in  service;  always  had  been.  Mary  kept  house 
for  an  invalid  father.  But  there  was  no  social  distinc- 
tion between  the  two. 

Mary  Willee  bent  close  over  the  sheet  of  ruled  note- 
paper  and  laboriously  traced  out  the  words,  dipping 
her  pen  every  few  seconds  with  professional  punctil- 
iousness and  screwing  up  her  homely  face  into  all  sorts 


122  Cape  Breton  Tales 

of  homely  expressions:  tongue  now  tight-bitten  be- 
tween her  teeth,  now  working  restlessly  in  one  cheek, 
now  hard  pressed  against  bulging  lips.  There  was 
agony  for  both  of  them  in  this  business  of  producing  a 
love-letter:  agony  for  Mary  Willee  because  she  had 
never  fully  mastered  the  art  of  writing,  and  the  shap- 
ing just-so  of  the  letters  and  above  all  the  spelling 
brought  out  beads  of  sweat  on  her  forehead*  agony 
for  Sabine  Bob  because  her  heart  was  so  burstingly 
full  and  words  were  so  powerless  to  ease  that  bursting. 

Besides,  how  could  she  be  sure,  really,  positively 
surCy  that  Mary  Willee  was  recording  there  on  that 
paper  the  very  words,  just  those  very  words  and  none 
others,  which  she  was  confiding  to  her !  Writing  was 
a  tricky  affair.  Tricky,  like  the  English  language 
which  Sabine  Bob  was  using,  against  her  will,  for  the 
reason  that  Mary  Willee  had  never  learned  to  write 
French.  French  was  natural.  In  French  one  could 
say  what  one  thought:  it  felt  homelike.  In  English 
one  had  to  be  stiff. 

"  Read  me  what  I  have  said  so  far,"  directed  Sabine 
Bob,  and  she  held  to  the  seat  of  her  chair  with  her 
bony  hands  and  listened. 

Mary  Willee  began,  compliantly.  "  '  My  dearling 
Thomas  '  "  — 

Sabine  Bob  interrupted.  "  The  number  of  the  day 
comes  first.  Always !  I  brought  you  the  calendar  with 
the  day  marked  on  it." 

"  I  wrote  it  here,"  said  Mary  Willee.  "  You  need 
not  be  so  anxious.    I  have  done  letters  before  this." 


Fly,  My  Heart  123 

"Oh,  but  everything  is  so  important!  "  ejaculated 
Sabine,  with  tragedy  in  her  voice.  "  Now  begin  again." 

"  *  My  dearling  Thomas.  It  is  bad  times  here.  So 
much  fogg  all  ways,  i  was  houghing  potatoes  since  2 
days  and  they  looks  fine  and  i  am  nitting  yous  some 
socks  for  when  yous  come  back,  i  hope  you  is  getting 
lots  of  them  poggiz.'  " 

Mary  Willee  hesitated.  "  I  ain't  just  sure  how  to 
spell  that  word,"  she  confessed. 

"Pogeys?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  ought  to  be.  What  for  did  they  send  you  to 
the  convent  all  those  four  years?  " 

"  It  was  only  three.  And  the  nuns  never  taught  us 
no  such  things  as  about  pogey-fishing.  But  no  matter. 
Thomas  Ned  will  know  what  you  mean,  because  that's 
what  he's  gone  fishing  after." 

And  she  continued:  "  *  I  miss  yous  awful  some  days, 
when  you  comes  back  in  octobre  we's  git  married 
sure.'  " 

She  looked  up.    "  That's  all  you  told  me  so  far." 

Sabine's  face  was  drawn  into  furrows  of  intense 
thought.    "  How  many  more  lines  is  there  to  fill?  " 

"  Seven." 

"  Well,  then,  tell  him  I  was  looking  at  the  little 
house  what  his  auntie  Sophie  John  left  him  and  think- 
ing how  nice  it  would  be  when  there  was  some  front 
steps  and  the  shimney  was  fix'  and  there  were  curtains 
to  the  windows  in  front  and  some  geraniums  and  I  t'ink 
I  will  raise  some  hens  because  they  are  such  good  com- 


124  Cape  Breton  Tales 

pany  running  in  and  out  all  day  when  he  will  be  away 
pogey-fishing  but  perhaps  when  we're  married  he  won't 
have  to  go  off  any  more  because  his  healt'  is  put  to 
danger  by  it  and  how  would  it  do,  say,  if  he  got  a  little 
horse  and  truck  with  the  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  I 
got  saved  up  and  did  work  by  the  day  for  people 
ashore  and  then  "  —  she  paused  for  breath. 

"Is  that  too  much  to  write?"  she  remarked  with 
sudden  anxiety. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Mary  Willee,  firmly.  "  You  can 
say  two  things,  and  then  good-by." 

Two  things !  Sabine  Bob  stared  at  the  little  yellow 
circle  of  light  on  the  smoky  ceiling  over  the  lamp ;  then 
out  of  the  window  into  the  darkness.  Two  things 
more ;  and  there  were  so  many  thousand  things  to  say ! 
Her  mind  was  a  blank. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  Mary  reminded  her,  poising  her 
pen  pitilessly. 

"  Tell  him,"  gasped  out  Sabine,  "  tell  him  —  I  t'ink 
I  raise  some  hens." 

Letter  by  letter  the  pregnant  sentence  was  inscribed, 
while  Sabine  stared  at  the  pen  with  paralyzed  atten- 
tion, as  if  her  doom  were  being  written  in  the  Book 
of  Judgment;  and  now  the  time  had  come  for  the  sec- 
ond thing!    Tears  of  helplessness  stood  in  her  eyes. 

*'Ask  him,"  she  blurted  out,  ''  would  the  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  what  I  got  buy  a  nice  little  horse  and 
truck." 

Mary  Willee  paused.    She  seemed  embarrassed. 

"  Write  it,"  commanded  the  other. 


Fly,  My  Heart  125 

Mary  Willee  looked  almost  frightened.  "  Must  you 
say  that  about  the  money?  "  she  asked,  weakly. 

"  Write  the  words  I  told  you,"  insisted  Sabine. 
*'  This  is  my  letter,  not  yours." 

Reluctantly  the  younger  woman  set  down  the  sen- 
tence; then  added  the  requisite  and  necessary  "  Good- 
by,  from  Sabine." 

"  Is  there  room  for  a  few  kisses?  "  asked  the  fiancee. 

''  One  row." 

Sabine  seized  the  pen  greedily  and  holding  it  be- 
tween clenched  fingers  added  a  line  of  significant  little 
lop-sided  symbols.  Then  while  her  secretary  prepared 
the  letter  for  mailing,  she  wiped  her  forehead  with  a 
large  blue  handkerchief  which  she  refolded  and  re- 
turned to  the  skirt-pocket  that  contained  her  rosary 
and  her  purse.  She  put  on  her  little  old  yellow-black 
hat  again  and  made  ready  to  go. 

"  Now  to  the  post-office,"  she  said.  *'  How  glad 
Thomas  Ned  will  be  when  he  gets  it!  " 

''  I  am  sure  he  will,"  said  Mary;  and  if  there  was 
any  doubt  in  her  tone,  it  was  not  perceived  by  her 
friend,  who  suddenly  flung  her  arms  about  her  in  a 
gush  of  happy  emotion. 

*'  Dieu,  que  c'est  beau,  I'amour!  "  she  exclaimed. 

The  sentiment  was  not  a  new  one  in  the  world;  but 
it  was  still  a  new  one,  and  very  wonderful,  to  Sabine 
Bob:  Sabine  Bob  who  had  never  been  pretty,  even  in 
youthful  days,  who  had  never  had  any  nice  clothes 
or  gone  to  parties,  but  had  just  scrubbed  and  washed 
and  swept,  saved  what  she  could,  gone  to  church  on 


126  Cape  Breton  Tales 

Sundays,  bought  a  new  pair  of  shoes  every  other  year. 

Not  that  she  had  ever  thought  of  pitying  herself. 
She  was  too  practical  for  that;  and  besides,  there  had 
always  been  plenty  to  be  happy  about.  The  music  in 
church,  for  instance,  which  thrilled  and  dissolved  and 
comforted  her;  and  the  pictures  there,  which  she  loved 
to  gaze  at,  especially  the  one  of  Our  Lady  above  the 
altar. 

And  then  there  were  children !  No  one  need  be  very 
unhappy,  it  seemed  to  Sabine  Bob,  in  a  world  where 
there  were  children.  She  never  went  out  without  first 
putting  a  few  little  hard,  colored  candies  in  her  pocket 
to  dispense  along  the  street,  over  gates  and  on  front 
steps.  The  tinier  the  children  were  the  more  she  loved 
them.  Every  spring  in  Petit  Espoir  there  was  a  fresh 
crop  of  the  very  tiniest  of  all ;  and  towards  these  —  lit- 
tle pink  bundles  of  softness  and  helplessness  —  she  felt 
something  of  the  adoration  which  those  old  Wise  Men 
felt  who  had  followed  the  star.  If  she  had  had  spices 
and  frankincense,  Sabine  Bob  would  have  offered  it,  on 
her  knees.  But  in  lieu  of  that,  she  brought  little  knit- 
ted sacques  and  blankets  and  hoods. 

Such  had  been  Sabine  Bob's  past;  and  that  a  day 
was  to  come  in  her  life  when  a  handsome  young  man 
should  say  sweet,  loving  things  to  her,  present  her  with 
perfumery,  bottle  on  bottle,  ask  her  to  be  his  wife, 
bless  you,  she  would  have  been  the  first  to  scout  the 
ridiculous  idea  —  till  six  months  ago !  Thomas  Ned 
was  a  small  man,  about  forty,  squarely  built,  with  pink 
cheeks,  long  lashes,  luxuriant  moustache ;  a  pretty  man ; 


Fly,  My  Heart  127 

a  man  who  cut  quite  a  figure  amongst  the  girls  and 
(many  declared)  could  have  had  his  pick  of  them. 
Why,  why,  had  he  chosen  Sabine  Bob?  When  she 
considered  the  question  thoughtfully,  she  found 
answers  enough,  for  she  was  not  a  girl  who  under- 
estimated her  own  worth. 

**  Thomas  is  sensible,"  she  explained  to  Mary  Wil- 
lee.  "  He  knows  better  than  to  take  up  with  one  of 
those  weak,  sickly  young  things  that  have  nothing  but 
a  pretty  face  and  stylish  clothes  to  recommend  them. 
I  can  work;  I  can  save;  I  can  make  his  life  easy.  He 
knows  he  will  be  well  looked  out  for." 

If  Mary  Willee  could  have  revised  this  explanation, 
she  refrained  from  doing  so.  It  would  have  taken 
courage  to  do  so  at  that  moment,  for  Sabine  Bob  was 
so  happy !  It  was  almost  comical  for  any  one  to  be  so 
happy  as  that  I  Sabine  realized  it  and  laughed  at  her- 
self and  was  happier  still.  Morning,  noon,  and  night, 
during  those  first  mad,  marvelous  days  after  she  had 
promised  to  become  Madame  Thomas  Ned,  she  was 
singing  a  bit  of  gay  nonsense  she  had  known  from 
childhood: 

Vive  la  Canadienne, 

Vole,  vole,  vole,  mon  coeur! 

"  Fly,  fly,  oh  fly,  my  heart,"  trolled  Sabine  Bob;  and 
every  evening,  until  the  time  came  when  he  must  de- 
part for  the  pogey-fishing,  in  May,  he  had  come  and 
sat  with  her  in  the  kitchen ;  he  would  smoke ;  she  would 
knit  away  at  a  pair  of  mittens  for  him  (oh,  such  small 


128  Cape  Breton  Tales 

hands  as  that  Thomas  had!),  and  about  ten  o'clock 
she  would  fetch  a  glass  of  blueberry  wine  and  some 
currant  cookies.  How  nice  it  was  to  be  doing  such 
things  for  some  one  —  of  one's  own ! 

She  hovered  over  him  like  a  ministering  spirit, 
beaming  and  tender.  This  was  what  she  had  starved 
for  all  her  life  without  knowing  it:  to  serve  some  one 
of  her  own!  Not  for  wages  now;  for  love !  She  flung 
herself  on  the  altar  of  Thomas  and  burned  there  with 
a  clear  ecstatic  flame. 

And  now  that  he  had  been  away  four  months,  pogey- 
fishing,  she  would  sometimes  console  herself  by  getting 
out  the  five  picture-postcards  he  had  sent  her  and  muse 
upon  the  scenes  of  affection  depicted  there  and  pick  out, 
word  by  word,  the  brief  messages  he  had  written.  With 
Mary  Willee's  assistance  she  had  memorized  them; 
and  they  were  words  of  sempiternal  devotion;  and 
there  were  little  round  love-knows-what's  In  plenty; 
and  on  one  card  he  called  her  his  little  wife;  and  that 
was  the  one  she  prized  the  most.    Wife !    Sabine  Bob ! 

That  no  card  arrived  in  answer  to  her  August  letter 
did  not  surprise  her,  for  the  pogeymen  often  did  not 
put  Into  port  for  weeks  at  a  time ;  and  anyhow  the  day 
was  not  far  away,  now,  when  the  season  would  be  over 
and  those  who  had  gone  up  from  Petit  Espoir  would 
come  down  again. 

So  the  weeks  slipped  by.  October  came.  The 
pogey-fishermen  returned. 

She  waited  for  Thomas  Ned  in  the  kitchen  that  first 
evening,  palpitating  with  expectancy;  and  he  did  not 


Fly,  My  Heart  129 

come.  During  the  sleepless  night  that  followed  she 
conjured  up  excuses  for  him.  He  had  had  one  of  his 
attacks  of  rheumatism.  His  mother  had  been  ill  and 
had  required  his  presence  at  home.  The  next  evening 
he  would  come,  oh  certainly,  and  explain  everything. 
Attired  in  her  best,  she  sat  and  waited  a  second  eve- 
ning; then  a  third.    There  was  no  sign  of  him. 

From  Mary  Willie  she  learned  that  Thomas  had 
arrived  with  the  others;  that  he  appeared  in  perfect 
health,  never  handsomer;  also  that  his  mother  was  well. 

"  Oh,  it  cannot  be  that  anything  has  happened," 
cried  Sabine,  with  choking  tears.  "  Surely  it  will  all  be 
explained  soon !  "  But  there  was  a  tightening  about 
her  heart,  a  black  premonition  of  ill  to  come. 

She  continued  to  wait.  She  was  on  the  watch  for 
him  day  and  night.  At  least  he  would  pass  on  the 
street,  and  she  could  waylay  him!  Every  time  she 
heard  footsteps  or  voices  she  flew  to  the  kitchen  door. 
When  her  work  was  done,  she  would  hurry  out  to  the 
barn,  where  there  was  a  little  window  commanding  a 
good  view  of  the  harbor-front;  and  there  she  would 
sit,  muffled  in  a  shawl,  for  hours,  hunger  gnawing  at 
her  heart,  her  eyes  dry  and  staring,  until  her  teeth 
began  to  chatter  with  cold  and  nervousness. 

He  never  passed.  Some  one  met  him  taking  the 
back  road  into  the  village.  He  was  purposely  avoid- 
ing her. 

When  Sabine  Bob  realized  that  she  was  deserted  by 
the  man  she  loved,  thrown  aside  without  a  word,  she 
suffered  unspeakably;  but  her  native  good  sense  saved 


130  Cape  Breton  Tales 

her  from  making  any  exhibition  of  her  grief.  She  knew 
better  than  to  make  a  fool  of  herself.  If  there  was 
one  thing  she  dreaded  worse  than  death  it  was  being 
laughed  at.  She  was  a  self-respecting  girl;  she  had 
her  pride.  And  no  one  witnessed  the  spasms,  the 
cyclones,  which  sometimes  seized  her  in  the  seclusion 
of  her  little  attic  bedroom.  These  were  not  the  pictur- 
esque, grandiose  sufferings  of  high  tragedy;  there  was 
small  resemblance  between  Sabine  Bob  and  Carthagin- 
ian Dido;  Sabine's  agonies  were  stark  and  cruel  and 
ugly,  unsoftened  by  poetry.  But  she  kept  them  to 
herself. 

She  did  her  work  as  before.  But  she  did  not  sing; 
and  perhaps  she  nicked  more  dishes  than  usual,  for  her 
hands  trembled  a  good  deal.  But  she  kept  her  lips 
tight  shut.  And  she  never  went  out  on  the  street  if 
she  could  help  it. 

So  a  month  passed.  Two  months.  And  then  one 
evening  Mary  WlUee  came  running  in  breathless  with 
news  for  her :  news  that  made  her  skin  prickle  and  her 
blood,  after  one  dizzy,  faint  moment,  drum  hotly  in 
her  temples. 

Thomas  Ned  was  paying  attentions  to  Tina  Le- 
jeune,  that  blonde  young  girl  from  the  Ponds.  He  had 
taken  her  to  a  dance.  He  had  bought  a  scarf  for  her 
and  a  bottle  of  perfumery.  He  had  taken  her  to  drive. 
They  had  been  seen  walking  together  several  times  in 
the  dark  on  the  upper  street. 

"Does  he  say  he  is  going  to  marry  her?'  asked 
Sabine  Bob,  with  dry  lips. 


Fly,  My  Heart  131 

"  I  do  not  know  that.  She  says  so.  She  says  they 
are  to  be  married  soon.'* 

"  Does  she  know  about  —  about  me?  " 

"  Yes,  but  she  says  —  "  Mary  Willee  stopped  short 
in  embarrassment. 

"  Says  what!  Tell  me!  Tell  me  at  once!  "  com- 
manded Sabine,  fiercely.     ''  What  does  she  say!  " 

"  She  says  Thomas  thought  you  had  a  lot  of  money. 
He  was  deceived,  he  said." 

Sabine  broke  out  in  a  passion  of  indignation.  "  I 
never  deceived  him:  never,  never!  I  never  once  said 
anything  about  money.  He  never  asked  me  anything. 
It's  a  lie.    I  tell  you,  it's  a  lie !  " 

Mary  quailed  visibly,  unable  to  disguise  a  tell-tale 
look  of  guilt. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mary  Willee !  "  cried 
Sabine.  "  You  are  hiding  something.  You  know  some- 
thing you  have  not  told  me !  " 

Mary  replied,  in  a  very  frightened  voice :  "  Once  he 
asked  me  if  you  had  any  money.  I  did  not  think  he 
was  really  in  earnest,  so  I  told  him  you  had  saved  a 
thousand  dollars.  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  any  harm.  I  only 
said  it  to  be  agreeable.  And  later  I  was  afraid  to  tell 
the  truth,  for  it  was  only  two  or  three  days  later  he 
asked  you  to  marry  him,  and  you  were  so  happy." 

Mary  Willee  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  waited 
for  the  storm  to  break  upon  her;  but  it  did  not  break. 
The  room  was  very  quiet.  At  last  she  heard  Sabine 
moving  about,  and  she  looked  up  again.  Sabine  was 
putting  on  her  hat  and  coat. 


132  Cape  Breton  Tales 

"  Sabine!  Sabine!  "  she  gasped.  "What  are  you 
doing!" 

Sabine  Bob  turned  quietly  and  stood  for  a  moment 
gazing  at  her  without  a  word.  Then  she  said : 

"  Mary  Willee,  you  are  a  bad  girl  and  I  can  never 
forgive  you;  but  if  Tina  Lejeune  thinks  she  is  going  to 
marry  Thomas  Ned,  she  will  find  out  that  she  is  mis- 
taken.   That  is  a  thing  that  will  not  happen." 

Mary  recoiled,  terrified,  at  the  pitiless,  menacing 
smile  on  the  other  woman's  face ;  but  before  she  could 
say  anything  Sabine  Bob  had  stalked  out  of  the  house 
into  the  darkness. 

She  climbed  the  hill  to  the  back  road,  stumbling 
often,  blinded  more  by  her  own  fierce  emotions  than  by 
the  winter  night;  she  fought  her  way  westward  against 
the  bitter  wind  that  was  rising;  then  turned  off  by  the 
Old  French  Road,  as  it  was  called,  toward  the  Ponds. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night;  stars,  but  no  moon.  She 
saw  a  shadow  approaching  in  the  darkness  from  the 
opposite  direction:  it  was  a  man,  short  and  squarely- 
built.  With  a  sickening  weakness  she  sank  down 
against  the  wattle  fence  at  the  side  of  the  road.  He 
passed  her,  so  close  that  she  could  have  reached  out 
and  touched  him.  But  he  had  not  seen.  She  got  up 
and  hurried  on. 

By  and  by  she  saw  ahead  of  her  the  little  black  bulk 
of  a  house  from  the  tiny  window  of  which  issued  a  yel- 
low glow.  The  house  stood  directly  on  the  road.  She 
went  quietly  to  the  window  and  looked  in.     A  young 


Fly,  My  Heart  133 

girl  was  sitting  by  a  bare  table,  her  head  supported  by 
the  palms  of  her  hands.  Sabine  knew  the  weak  white 
face  and  hated  it.  She  made  her  way  to  the  door  and 
knocked.  There  was  a  smothered,  startled  exclama- 
tion; then  the  rustle  of  some  one  moving. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  inquired  a  timid  voice. 

"  Let  me  in  and  I  will  tell  you,"  responded  the 
woman  outside,  in  a  voice  the  more  menacing  because 
of  its  control. 

"  My  mother  is  not  at  home  to-night.  She  is  over 
at  the  widow  Babinot's.  If  you  go  over  there  you  will 
find  her." 

"  It  is  you  I  wish  to  see.    Open  the  door!  " 

There  was  no  answer.  Sabine  turned  the  knob  and 
entered.  At  the  sight  of  her  the  blonde  girl  gave  a 
cry  of  dismay  and  retreated  behind  the  table, 
trembling. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  she  gasped. 

"  We  have  an  account  to  settle  together,  you  and 
me,"  said  Sabine,  with  something  like  a  laugh. 

''Account? "  said  the  other,  bracing  herself,  but 
scarcely  able  to  articulate.  "What  account?  I  have 
not  done  you  any  harm.  Before  God  I  have  not  done 
you  any  harm." 

Sabine  laughed  mockingly.  "  So  you  think  there  is 
no  harm  in  taking  away  from  me  the  man  I  was  going 
to  marry?  " 

"  I  did  not  take  him  away,"  said  Tina,  faintly. 

"  You  did!    You  did  take  him  away!  "  cried  Sabine, 


134  Cape  Breton  Tales 

fiercely.  "  He  was  mine;  it  was  last  March  he  prom- 
ised to  marry  me;  any  one  can  tell  you  that.  I  have 
witnesses.  I  have  letters.  Everything  I  tell  you  can 
be  proved.  He  belongs  to  me  just  as  much  as  if  we 
had  been  before  a  priest  already;  and  if  you  think  you 
can  take  him  away  from  me,  you  will  find  out  you  are 
wrong!  " 

For  a  few  seconds  the  paralyzed  girl  before  her 
could  not  utter  a  word;  then  she  stammered  out: 

"  He  told  me  you  had  deceived  him  about  money." 

Sabine  gave  an  inarticulate  cry  of  rage,  like  a  wild 
beast  at  bay.  "  It's  a  lie !  A  lie !  I  never  deceived 
him.  It's  he  who  deceived  me;  but  let  me  tell  you  this: 
when  a  woman  like  me  promises  to  marry  a  man,  she 
keeps  her  word.  Do  you  understand?  She  keeps  her 
word  I  I  am  going  to  marry  Thomas  Ned.  He  cannot 
escape  me.  I  will  go  to  the  priest.  I  will  go  to  the 
lawyer.    There  are  plenty  of  ways." 

The  blonde  girl  sank  trembling  into  a  chair. 

"  He  cannot  marry  you,"  she  gasped.  "  He  cannot. 
He  cannot." 

"  No?  "  cried  Sabine,  with  ringing  mockery.  *'And 
why  not?  " 

Tina's  lips  moved  inaudibly.  She  moistened  them 
with  her  tongue  and  made  a  second  attempt. 

*'  Because  —  "  she  breathed. 

"Yes?    Yes?" 

"  Because  —  he  must  marry  me."  She  buried  her 
head  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 

Sabine  Bob  strode  to  the  cringing  girl,  seized  her  by 


Fly,  My  Heart  135 

the  shoulders,  forcing  her  up  roughly  against  the  back 
of  the  chair,  and  broke  out  with  a  ruthless  laugh : 

"  Must !  Must !  You  don't  say  so !  And  why,  tell 
me,  must  he  marry  you?  " 

The  white  girl  raised  her  eyes  for  one  instant  to  the 
other's  face;  and  there  was  a  look  in  them  of  mute 
pleading  and  confession,  a  look  that  was  like  a  death- 
cry  for  pity.  The  look  shot  through  Sabine's  turgid 
consciousness  like  a  white-hot  dagger.  She  staggered 
back  as  if  mortally  stricken,  supporting  herself  against 
a  tall  cupboard,  staring  at  the  girl,  whose  head  had 
now  sunk  to  the  table  again  and  whose  body  was  shak- 
ing with  spasmodic  sobs.  It  was  one  of  the  moments 
when  destinies  are  written. 

At  such  moments  we  act  from  something  deeper, 
more  elemental,  than  will.  The  best  or  the  worst  in 
us  leaps  out  —  or  perhaps  neither  one  nor  the  other 
but  merely  that  thing  in  us  that  is  most  essentially 
ourselves. 

Sabine  stared  at  the  poor  girl  whose  terrifying,  won- 
derful secret  had  just  been  revealed  to  her,  and  she  felt 
through  all  her  being  a  sense  of  shattering  and  disin- 
tegration ;  and  suddenly  she  was  there,  beside  Tina,  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair;  and  she  brought  the  girl's  head 
over  against  her  bosom  and  held  her  very  tight  in  her 
eager  old  arms,  patting  her  shoulders  and  stroking  her 
soft  hair,  while  the  tears  rained  down  her  cheeks  and 
she  murmured,  soothingly: 

"  Pauvre  petite!"  and  again  and  again,  "  Pauvre 
petite !    Ma  pauvre  petite !  " 


136  Cape  Breton  Tales 

Tina  abandoned  herself  utterly  to  the  other's  impas- 
sioned tenderness;  and  for  a  long  time  the  two  sat 
there,  tightly  clasped,  silent,  understanding. 

Sabine  Bob  had  no  word  of  blame  for  the  unhappy 
girl.  Vaguely  she  knew  that  she  ought  to  blame  her; 
very  vaguely  she  remembered  that  girls  like  this  were 
bad  girls ;  but  that  did  not  seem  to  make  any  difference. 
Instead  of  indignation  she  felt  something  very  like 
humility  and  reverence. 

"  Yes,  he  must  marry  you,"  she  said  at  last,  very 
simply  and  gently. 

"  Oh,  if  he  only  would!  "  sobbed  Tina. 

"  What!  "  cried  Sabine,  in  amazement. 

"  He  says  such  cruel  things  to  me,"  confessed  the 
girl.  "  He  knows,  oh,  he  does  know  I  never  loved  any 
man  but  himself;  never,  never  any  other  man,  nor  ever 
will!" 

Sabine's  eyes  opened  upon  new  vistas  of  man's  per- 
fidiousness.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  everything,  how  one 
could  love  them!  She  felt  an  immense  compassion 
toward  this  poor  girl  who  had  loved  not  wisely  but  so 
all-givingly. 

"  I  will  go  to  him,"  she  said,  resolutely.  "  I  will  tell 
him  he  must  marry  you;  and  I  will  say  that  if  he  does 
not,  I  will  tell  every  person  in  Petit  Espoir  what  a 
wicked  thing  he  has  done." 

Tina  leaped  to  her  feet  in  terror.  "  Oh,  no,  no !  " 
she  pleaded.     "  No  one  must  know." 

Sabine  understood.  Not  the  present  only,  but  the 
future  must  be  thought  of. 


Fly,  My  Heart  137 

*'And  if  he  was  forced  like  that  to  marry  me,  he 
would  hate  me,"  pursued  the  girl,  who  saw  things  with 
the  pitiless  clear  foresight  that  desperation  gives.  "  He 
must  marry  me  from  his  own  choice.  Oh,  if  I  could 
only  make  him  choose ;  but  to-night  he  said  NO !  and 
went  away,  very  angry.  I'm  afraid  he  will  never  come 
back  again." 

"  Yes,  he  will,"  said  Sabine  Bob.  There  was  a  grim 
smile  on  her  lips ;  and  she  squared  her  shoulders  as  if 
to  give  herself  courage  for  some  dreaded  ordeal. 
"  There  is  a  way." 

But  to  the  startled,  eager  question  in  the  other's  eyes, 
she  vouchsafed  no  answer.  She  came  to  her  and  put 
her  hands  firmly  on  her  shoulders. 

"  Tina,  will  you  promise  not  to  believe  anything  you 
hear  them  say  about  me?  Will  you  promise  to  keep 
on  loving  me  just  the  same?  " 

The  girl  clung  to  her.  "  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  prom- 
ised. "Always!"  and  then,  in  a  shy  whisper,  she 
added:  "And  some  day  —  I  will  not  be  the  only  one 
to  love  you." 

Sabine  Bob  gave  her  a  quick,  almost  violent  kiss,  and 
went  out,  not  stopping  for  even  a  word  of  good-night. 
And  the  next  day  she  put  her  plan  into  execution. 
There  was  a  perfectly  relentless  logic  about  Sabine 
Bob.    She  saw  a  thing  to  do ;  and  she  went  and  did  it. 

As  soon  as  her  dinner  dishes  were  washed  and  put 
away,  she  donned  her  old  brown  coat  and  the  little 
yellow-black  hat  that  had  served  her  winter  and  sum- 
mer from  time  immemorial,  and  proceeded  to  make  a 


138  Cape  Breton  Tales 

dozen  calls  on  her  friends,  up  and  down  the  street. 
Wherever  she  went  she  talked,  volubly,  feverishly.  She 
railed;  she  threatened;  she  vociferated;  and  the  object 
of  her  vociferations  was  Thomas  Ned.  He  had  prom- 
ised to  marry  her;  and  he  had  deserted  her;  and  she 
would  have  the  law  on  him !  Marry  her  he  must,  now, 
whether  he  would  or  no. 

"  See  that  word?  "  she  demanded,  displaying  her 
sheaf  of  compromising  post-cards.  "  That  word  is 
wife;  and  the  man  who  calls  me  wife  must  stick  to  it. 
I  am  not  a  woman  to  be  made  a  fool  of !  '^ 

So  she  stormed  away,  from  house  to  house.  Her 
friends  tried  to  pacify  her;  but  the  more  they  tried,  the 
more  venom  she  put  into  her  threats.  And  soon  the 
news  spread  through  the  whole  town.  Nothing  else 
was  talked  of. 

"  She's  crazy,"  people  said.  *'  But  she  can  make 
trouble  for  hrm,  if  she  wants  to,  no  doubt  about  it." 

Sabine  laughed  grimly  to  herself.  She  was  going  to 
succeed.  The  scheme  would  work.  She  knew  the  kind 
of  man  Thomas  Ned  was:  full  of  shifts.  He  had 
proved  that  already.  He  would  never  face  a  thing 
squarely.    He  would  look  for  a  way  out. 

She  was  right.  It  was  only  ten  days  later,  at  high 
mass,  that  the  success  of  her  strategy  was  tangibly 
proved.  At  the  usual  point  in  the  service  for  such  an- 
nouncements, just  before  the  sermon.  Father  Beau- 
clerc,  standing  in  the  pulpit,  called  the  banns  for 
Thomas  Boudrot,  of  Petit  Espoir,  North,  and  Tina 
Melanie  Brigitte  Lejeune,  of  the  Ponds. 


Fly,  My  Heart  139 

The  announcement  caused  a  sensation.  An  audible 
murmur  of  amazement,  not  to  say  consternation,  went 
up  from  all  quarters  of  the  edifice,  floor  and  galleries; 
even  the  altar  boys  exchanged  whispers  with  one  an- 
other; and  there  was  a  great  stretching  of  necks  in  the 
direction  of  Sabine  Bob,  who  sat  there  in  her  uncush- 
ioned  pew,  very  straight  and  very  red,  with  set  lips, 
while  her  rough  old  fingers  played  nervously  with  the 
rosary  in  her  lap. 

This  was  her  victory!  She  had  never  felt  the  ugli- 
ness of  her  fifty  years  so  cruelly  before.  A  bony,  ridic- 
ulous old  maid,  making  a  fool  of  herself  in  public! 
That  was  the  sum  of  it!  And  all  her  life  she  had  been 
so  careful,  so  jealously  careful,  not  to  do  anything 
that  might  cause  her  to  be  laughed  at! 

She  could  hear  some  of  the  whispers  that  were  being 
exchanged  in  neighboring  pews.  *'  Poor  old  thing!  " 
people  were  saying.  ''  But  how  could  she  expect  any- 
body would  want  to  marry  her  at  her  age !  " 

A  trembling  like  ague  seized  her,  and  she  felt  sud- 
denly very  cold  and  very  very  weak.  She  shut  her  eyes, 
for  things  were  beginning  to  flicker  and  whirl;  and 
when  she  opened  them  again,  they  were  caught  and 
held  by  the  picture  above  the  high  altar. 

It  was  the  Mother.  The  Mother  and  the  Little 
One.    He  lay  in  her  arms  and  smiled. 

The  tears  gushed  up  in  Sabine  Bob's  eyes,  and  a 
smile  of  wonderful  tenderness  and  peace  broke  over 
the  harsh  lines  of  her  face  and  transfigured  it,  just  for 
one    instant.     It   was    a    victory;    it   was    a   victory; 


140  Cape  Breton  Tales 

though  nobody  knew  it  but  herself;  just  herself,  and 
one  other,  and  —  perhaps  — 

Sabine  still  gazed  at  the  picture,  poor  old  Sabine 
Bob  in  her  brown  coat  and  faded  little  yellow-black 
hat;  and  the  Eternal  Mother  returned  the  gaze  of  the 
Eternal  Mother,  smiling;  and  it  didn't  matter  very 
much  after  that  —  how  could  it?  —  what  people  might 
think  or  say  in  Petit  Espoir. 

Once  more,  that  afternoon,  as  she  slashed  the  suds 
over  the  dishes,  Sabine  Bob  was  singing.  You  could 
hear  her  way  down  there  on  the  street,  so  buoyant  and 
so  merry  was  her  voice : 

Long  live  the  Canadian  maid; 
Fly,  fly,  oh  fly,  my  heart! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 

STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


UPR  UQ  1926 


3Nov'51LU 


25i»-7,'25 


T' 


VC  53356' 


580188 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY  ,i 


